TENNESSEE 
ROMANCE 


JOHN  TROTWOOD  MOORE 


XV 


A  SUMMER  HYMNAL. 


UMf.  Of  CALIF.  UBKA.U.  UW 


, 


"I'm  gvvine  co'rt  Little  Miss  Fiddle  to-night." 


A  Romance  of  Tennessee 


By  John  Trotwood  Moore 

Author  of  Ole  Mistisletc 


JOHN  C.  WINSTON 
COMPANY 


PHILADELPHIA 


COPYBIGHT,  1901,  Bv  HENRY  T.  COATES  &  COMPANY 

AU.  KIGHT9  KISnVBD. 


Thesis. 


2131488 


CONTENTS. 


CHAFTH 

I.  The  Cat-Bird, .       .     r^  "  ^    .       .       5 

II.  The  Blind  Man 17 

III.  Two  Preachers, 29 

IV.  Art  in  Nature,        .       .       .       .       .43 
V.    The  Thrasher, 57 

VI.  Thesis, .  69 

VII.  A  Bird  Biographer,  ....  91 

VHI.  The  Jewel  that  Lives,  ....  103 

IX.  The  Battle  in  Her  Eyes,  .  .  .  121 

X.  The  Victory  of  Fire,  .  .  .  .137 

XI.  A  Smile  in  the  Dark 161 

XII.  The  Sorrowing  Stars,  .  .  .  .173 

XIII.  The  Recompense,    .....    193 

XIV.  The  Dream  of  a  Melody,      .  .    209 
XV.    The  Secret  of  the  Hills 215 

(v) 


vi  Contents. 

CHAPTER  r\..f 

XVI.  Little  Miss  Fiddle 227 

XVII.  The  Light  Reflected 243 

XVIII.  The  Blind  Detective 251 

XIX.  The  Picture  of  a  Rose 271 

XX.  The  Unpaced  Race,        .       .       .       .287 

XXI.  A  Pike  of  Battles, 299 

XXII.  My  Love  has  Coma  as  a  Lily,    .       .  531 


THE  CAT-BIRD. 

POET,  when  he  wants  to  be — 
A  blue  song-wave  of  melody — 
Wood-thrush,  thrasher,  oriole, 
Poet  notes  that  upward  roll — 
A  lullaby  of  trick  and  trill, 
The  robin's  call  across  the  hill. 

Poet,  when  he  wants  to  be — 

Ay,  more  than  poet,  singer  he — 
Singer — for  now  the  mocking-bird 
From  honeysuckle  vine  is  heard, 

Trilling,  trilling — alas,  the  fall 

Ending  in  a  harsh  cat-call. 

Poet,  when  he  wants  to  be — 
Alas,  the  lesson  we  may  see — 

The  life-songs  that  around  us  float, 

Ending  in  a  broken  note. 


CHAPTER    I. 

IF  people  would  only  study  birds,  they  would 
learn  a  great  deal  more  about  how  to  get 
along  in  life. 

The  two  cat-birds  which  annually  make 
their  nest  in  a  beautiful  white-rose  bush  that 
climbs  and  blossoms  over  my  front  gallery, 
arrived  on  schedule-time  about  three  weeks 
ago.  Spring  has  come  late  in  Tennessee  this 
year,  later  than  I  have  known  it  for  years,  and 
the  blue-grass  is  shorter  this  May  than  it  gener- 
ally is  in  June. 

I  did  not  see  the  cat-birds  for  several  days 
after  they  arrived.  They  were  so  busy  build- 
ing their  nest.  1  wanted  to  ask  them  where 
they  had  been  all  the  winter,  and  what  the 
news  was  where  they  came  from,  and  how 
they  liked  it  down  South  where  they  wintered, 
and  many  other  questions.  But  I  saw  they 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

were  very  busy  preparing  to  go  to  housekeep- 
ing and  didn't  want  to  be  bothered  just  then. 

It's  with  birds  as  it  is  with  people— if  you 
want  to  retain  their  respect  and  friendship 
don't  bother  them  with  visits  and  questions 
when  they  are  busy. 

For  home  building  is  half  of  life.  Give  two 
sensible  young  people  a  home,  paid  for  and 
their  very  own,  and  their  future  is  half  made, 
their  destiny  is  half  solved.  If  you  strike 
the  home  idea  from  the  life  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race,  in  a  few  generations  they  will  be  tribes 
of  Arabs.  Those  who  have  no  homes  have  no 
anchor  in  life — no  fixed  purpose — and  hence 
not  very  much  to  live  for. 

Now  these  two  birds  are  very  sensible  little 
people,  and  when  I  see  them  building  their 
home  every  year  in  the  rose-bush  I  confess 
they  taught  me  something  I  had  not  thought  of 
before ;  the  prettier  the  home  they  build  the 
more  elevating  is  the  life  purpose. 

These  two  little  birds  had  a  thousand  and 
one  places  in  which  they  might  have  built 
their  home.  There  were  the  cherry  trees,  the 
big  oaks — white,  black  and  chincapin  —  the 


The  Cat-Bird 

elms,  the  close-tangled  shrubbery,  and  even 
the  honeysuckle  vine  in  the  garden. 

But  no,  they  must  have  the  prettiest  home 
they  can  find,  just  under  the  eaves  of  my  gal- 
lery, carpeted  in  bright  colors,  windowed  with 
deep  niches  of  light,  with  stained-glass  rose- 
leaves  to  catch  it  and  make  it  as  soft  as  any 
cathedral's,  and  the  roof  all  painted  with  green 
and  shingled  with  roses  that  tower  above  like 
the  parapets  of  a  mosque — and  all  so  conve- 
nient to  crumbs  from  my  dining-room  table  ! 

"Miss  Cynthia,"  1  said— 

— Miss  Cynthia  is  my  housekeeper.  She 
was  my  mother's  sister's  husband's  niece. 
Now  it  would  have  been  just  as  easy  to  say 
she  was  my  uncle's  niece,  but  that  is  the  way 
Miss  Cynthia  always  put  it,  as  if  she  was 
proud  of  the  mathematical  differentiation  in- 
volved, and  so  I  state  it  that  way,  too.  Miss 
Cynthia  was  also  proud  of  the  fact  that  she 
was  fifty-two  and  had  never  been  any  more 
interested  in  a  man  than  she  had  been  in  the 
rise  and  fall  of  the  Roman  Empire. — 

' '  Miss  Cynthia, ' '  I  said,  "  it  is  the  surround- 
ings of  life  that  elevate  us  or  pull  us  down,  and 
7 


they  do  it  so  gradually  that  we  are  up  or  down 
before  we  know  it.  Nay,  so  gradually  that 
sometimes  it  is  several  generations  before  the 
world  discovers  a  family  to  be  up  or  down.  1 
know  of  families  which  culminated, — no  other 
word  will  suit,  Miss  Cynthia, — generations 
ago,  in  some  statesman,  soldier,  poet, — some 
big  brain  of  some  kind.  I  know  them  to-day," 
1  added,  with  emphasis,  "when  the  bright 
reflection  from  the  shadow  of  that  star  is  all 
they  have  to  penetrate  the  twilight  of  their 
own  mediocrity. 

"There  was  a  gift  from  God  and  an  uplifting 
environment  in  the  life  of  the  star  of  the 
family  ;  there  was  the  holding  back  from  God 
and  the  down-drawing  tendency  in  the  life  of 
the  descendants " 

"  I  have  thought  of  something  I  have  wanted 
to  ask  you,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  breaking  in 
on  my  peroration. 

"  You  know  you  can  ask  me  anything  you 
wish,  you  always  do,"  I  said,  "  but  I  hope  it 
will  suggest  other  thoughts  on  this  interesting 
subject." 

"  No,  but  your  speaking  of  twilight  and  the 


The  Cat-Bird 

down-drawing  environments  of  life  make  me 
think  of  grasshoppers.  Do  they  feed  at  night 
as  well  as  in  the  day  ?" 

"Miss  Cynthia,"  I  replied,  "will  you  par- 
don me  for  telling  you  for  the  one-hundredth 
time  that  such  a  question  is  entirely  irrele- 
vant to  the  subject  we  were  discussing  ?  And 
now  may  I  ask  you  a  question  ?" 

Miss  Cynthia  nodded. 

"  Is  supper  ready  ?" 

She  did  not  reply,  but  went  in  and  rang  the 
bell. 

After  supper  I  went  out  again  on  the  porch 
and  sat  near  the  rose-vine  that  held  the  cat- 
birds' nest.  There  was  one  egg  in  it,  and 
both  birds  were  trying  to  keep  it  warm,  as  is 
their  custom.  Miss  Cynthia  had  seen  to  the 
putting  away  of  the  tea  things,  and  was  sit- 
ting near  me  embroidering  a  bust  of  Andrew 
Jackson  on  a  screen  to  go  into  the  fireplace  in 
the  company-room,  in  the  Summer.  . 

"  I  was  telling  you  before  supper  about  the 

environments  of  life  as  illustrated  by  birds, 

Miss  Cynthia,"  I  said  after  a  while,  "and  I 

will  tell  you  where  I  learned  it.    These  birds 

9 


told  me  the  whole  story  the  other  day  in  their 
own  bird  language.  The  cat-bird,  you  know, 
Miss  Cynthia,  is  about  the  same  size  and 
shape  as  the  mocking-bird  and  of  a  deep  slate- 
blue.  They  belong  to  the  same  family  of 
mockers,  only  the  cat-bird  is  lower  down  in 
the  scale.  They  are  not  much  at  singing,  ex- 
cept during  the  mating  season ;  then  the 
male  sometimes  gets  so  full  of  melody  he 
mounts  the  twig  of  a  neighboring  bough  and 
sings,  for  a  while,  with  the  splendor  imitative  of 
the  mocking-bird.  By  the  way,  Miss  Cyn- 
thia, that  proves  that  only  people  with  the 
mating  instinct  in  their  hearts  ever  make  true 
singers.  Only  good  lovers  make  good  poets." 

Miss  Cynthia  grunted  rather  cynically,  I 
thought. 

"However,"  I  continued,  "he  is  only  a 
quarter-horse  compared  to  the  mocking-bird — 
he  cannot  carry  his  clip  a  full  mile.  And 
worse  than  that,  he  can  only  run  his  bars  in 
short,  parallel  lines — he  cannot  connect  them 
with  the  rich,  ful)  notes  that  make  his  cousin 
master  of  all  sounds.  The  cat-bird  can  strike 

chords,  but  the  mocking-bird  can  blend  them 
10 


The  Cat-Bird 

into  lines  of  harmony  and  trill  them  into  waves 
of  melody.  - 

"  Now,  at  first,  these  little  housekeepers 
were  very  shy  of  me,  and  if  1  gathered  a  rose 
from  off  their  house,  or  peered  too  closely  into 
their  nest,  they  were  greatly  affronted,  and, 
perched  on  a  neighboring  limb,  made  the  air 
discordant  with  their  angry  cat-calls.  That  is 
the  sad  thing  about  cat-birds,  that  they  can 
sing  so  sweetly  and  yet  make  those  discordant, 
spiteful  notes.  We  have  many  singers  among 
men  like  them,  Miss  Cynthia, — mocking- 
birds in  company,  cat-birds  at  home. 

"But  a  few  crumbs  placed  on  the  railing 
every  day  has  convinced  them  I  am  their 
friend,  and  now  I  can  almost  touch  the  female 
as  she  sits  upon  her  eggs.  This  proves,  Miss 
Cynthia,  that  a  little  kindness  and  patience  is 
the  greatest  thing  in  the  world  for  making 
friends  of  birds,  as  well  as  of  other  people. 

"  But  1  was  repaid  for  all  of  it  the  other  day 
while  listening  to  the  male  bird  sing.  He  was 
perched  in  a  cherry  tree,  just  across  from  the 
rose-bush,  and  was  entertaining  his  mate  with 

his  imitative  song.     Presently  he  struck  a  few 
ii 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

bars  I  had  not  heard  him  utter  before.  He 
soared  just  a  little  higher  in  his  flight  than  he 
was  wont  to  do  when  he  first  came  to  visit  me 
in  the  early  housekeeping  days.  And  that 
song  said  to  me  as  plainly  as  ever  language 
spoke  :  '  Do  you  see  the  influence  of  a  beau- 
tiful home  and  that  little  wife  over  there  in 
the  nest  ?  Surprised  that  I  went  up  that  high, 
are  you  ?  Well,  it  is  funny,  and  I  am  a  little 
surprised  myself.  I  didn't  know  I  could  do  it. 
By  the  great  Spread  Eagle,  but  is  it  not  smart 
of  me  to  do  that  note  all  by  myself,  and  not  a 
cat-bird  that  ever  lived  has  done  it  before  ? 
How  did  I  do  it  ?  Why,  easy  enough.  I  was 
singing  along  in  the  same  old  way,  like  we 
cat-birds  have  done  all  our  lives,  feeling 
pretty  good,  you  know,  and  full  of  song.  I 
can't  tell  you  how  it  happened,  except  that  a 
gleam  of  joy  from  our  pretty  home  got  into 
my  song  and  a  love-bar  or  two  at  thought  of 
the  beautiful  creature  that  was  keeping  house 
for  me.  Then,  all  at  once,  I  felt  a  great  up- 
lifting— greater  than  any  cat-bird  ever  felt 
before,  and — there  you  are;  I  have  set  a 

mark  for  cat-birds,  by  the  great  Spread  Eagle 
12 


The  Cat-Bird 

I  have  ! — and  I  tell  you  right  now,  if  we  have 
good  luck  and  raise  our  little  fellows  in  this 
pretty  home,  and  under  that  eave  of  roses  and 
amid  the  softened  light  of  the  rose-leaves,  and 
the  sweet,  quiet  air  of  all  this  peaceful  nest, 
who  doubts  but  one  of  them  may  yet  sit  upon 
this  twig  and  sing  as  sweetly  as  any  mocking- 
bird that  ever  lived.  What  makes  song? 
Character,  heart,  brain.  What  makes  char- 
acter ?  The  influence  of  that  which  is  good 
and  the  exercise  of  that  influence.  Now  if  we 
keep  a  healthy  heart  and  brain,  and  year  after 
year  and. generation  after  generation  keep  on 
adding  loftiness  to  loftiness,  and  strength  to 
strength — character-breeding — and  all  under 
the  influence  of  peace  and  truth  and  happi- 
ness and  virtue,  what's  the  reason  a  cat-bird 
won't  be  hatched  some  day  who  will  have  all 
of  these  in  him  so  strongly  that  he  will  burst 
out  in  song  and  tell  the  world  all  about  it,  as 
sweetly  as  any  mocking-bird  ever  did  ?'  " 

Miss  Cynthia  embroidered  along  in  silence 
for  a  while.  Then  she  said:  "I  wanted  to 
ask  you  another  question,  but  1  have  forgot- 
ten it." 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

"Now  in  the  case  of  these  birds,"  I  went 
on. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now,"  chirped  in 
Miss  Cynthia.  "The  Jersey  cow  has  not 
been  eating  well  of  late,  and  old  Wash  says 
she  has  lost  her  cud.  Do  you  really  think  a 
cow  can  lose  her  cud  ?" 

"  Much  easier  than  a  woman  can  lose  her 
tongue,"  I  grunted  savagely,  for  I  hated  to  be 
interrupted  in  that  way.  That  was  mean  of 
me,  I  know,  for  when  I  thought  of  it  after- 
wards, man-like,  I  had  done  all  the  talking. 

Miss  Cynthia  jabbed  her  needle  in  Andrew 
Jackson's  eye  and  went  in. 


THE  BLIND  MAN. 

WHEN  I  wake  up  in  the  mornin',  in  the 
laughin',  smilin'  mornin', 
With  my  soul  keyed  liked  a  fiddle  an'  my 

heart  keyed  like  a  lute, 
An*  memory-maids  come  trippin',  an'  a  slidin* 

an'  a  slippin', 
An*  floodin'  all  my  heart  house  with  the  faint 

notes  of  their  flute — 
Then  my  lips  jus'  longs  to  utter  little  songs 

that  kind  o'  flutter 
'Round  the  earthly  cage  that  coops  them,  an' 

would  fly  up  in  the  light, 
An'   to  my   soul   all   yearnin',   little  fire-fly 

thoughts  come  burnin' 
An*  bringin'  spirit-lanterns  that  would  lead 

it  out  of  night — 

When  I  wake  up  in  the  mornin'. 
When  I  wake  up  in  the  mornin',  in  that  solemn, 
silent  mornin', 

is 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

After  long,  long  years  of  slumber,  an'  long, 

long  years  of  sleep, 

When  my  spirit's  bird  has  rested  in  the  heav- 
enly air  it  breasted 
An'  its  golden  pinions  tested  for  their  flight 

across  the  Deep — 
Lord,  I  know  my  soul  will  flutter  up  to  heaven, 

an'  will  utter 
In  a  clearer  note  the  songs  it  only  tried  to 

sing  below ; 
An'  these  fitful,  fiery  flashes  from  the  pale 

hope  of  my  ashes 
Will  be  altars  of  star  incense  in  the  glory 

of  Thy  glow — 
When  I  wake  up  in  the  mornin'. 


CHAPTER   II. 

ALL  trees  to  me  are  beautiful — I  love  them 
all — but  none  appeal  to  me  so  strongly 
as  the  yellow  locust,  that  silent  and  unselfish 
coverer  and  protector  of  barren  places,  who  lifts 
his  garlanded  head  above  the  neglected  spots 
which  other  trees,  having  exhausted,  lover- 
like,  now  shun,  spangling  the  seared  and 
blistered  earth  with  his  cream-bell  clusters, 
moistening  it  with  his  tears,  soothing  and 
shading  it  with  the  shadow  of  his  own  sweet 
grief.  Ah  !  what  a  Samaritan,  among  trees, 
he  is,  giving  his  life  to  the  stricken  places  of 
earth,  his  heart's  perfume  to  those  that  know 
no  other  sweetness. 

And  so  I  love  this  tree,  because  of  all  the 

trees  of  the  forest,  this  rugged  worker  is  one 

of  the  few  which  sends  up  to  his  Maker  the 

incense  of  his    soul — a   tree-prayer,  wafted 

2  17 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

from  the  heart  of  a  blossom  to  the  soul  of  a 
star. 

And  why  is  this  ?  Why  should  this  wrest- 
ler with  a  stunted  soil, — this  farmer-tree,  good 
anywhere  from  the  fence-post  of  poverty  to 
the  flag-staff  of  sentiment, — alone  be  the  one 
to  pay  back  in  sweetness  the  tribute  of  his 
heart  for  the  beneficence  of  life  ?  The  oak, 
the  elm,  the  ash,  the  beech — these  and  many 
others  are  stronger,  more  prosperous,  hand- 
somer, better-bred,  more  aristocratic,  so  to 
speak.  They  require  a  richer  surface,  a 
deeper  soil.  Their  palates,  forsooth,  are  finer, 
and  they  need  a  daintier  morsel  to  crush  be- 
neath their  tongues.  But  where  is  their  per- 
fume ?  Where  is  their  tribute  ? 

To  the  careless  passer-by,  who  judges 
trees  as  he  does  men,  the  homely  locust  would 
scarcely  be  noticed.  It  is  only  when  the 
Silent  Questioner  of  Hearts  points  his  finger 
at  each  and  asks  for  their  talent  that  the 
rugged  locust,  with  his  bell-shaped  blossom, 
stands  out,  the  poet  among  them  all  —the 
tribute-bearer  of  a  struggling  world  to  the 

silent  stars. 

18 


The  Blind  Man 

Aye,  and  I  have  wondered  at  this — that  flint 
and  clay  should  bring  the  strength,  toil  and 
trials  the  blossoms ;  that  worth  should  be 
the  perfume  the  crucible  of  pain  extracts 
from  the  lilies  of  labor ;  that  sorrow  alone 
should  be  able  to  gather  up  the  soul-cells 
of  sweetness  and  toss  them  back  to  a  yearning 
world. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  should  associate  the 
yellow  locust  with  the  Blind  Man,  but  for 
some  reason  I  always  do.  Now  the  Blind  Man 
is  a  friend  of  mine  from  whom  I  have  learned 
more  than  from  many  people  who  claim  to  see. 
For  I  consider  that  man  truly  remarkable  who, 
having  not  eyes,  yet  sees  all  things.  Ruskin 
puts  it  prettily  :  "  The  more  I  think  of  it,  I 
find  the  conclusion  more  impressed  upon  me 
that  the  greatest  thing  a  human  soul  ever  does 
in  this  world  is  to  see  something.  Hundreds 
of  people  can  talk  to  one  who  can  think,  but 
thousands  can  think  for  one  who  can  see.  To 
see  clearly  is  poetry,  prophecy  and  religion  all 
in  one." 

It  is  so  unusal  to  see  a  blind  man  in  a  small 
town,  that  people  do  not  often  call  Mr.  Emer- 
19 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

son  by  his  real  name.  He  is  known  gener- 
ally as  the  Blind  Man. 

It  came  upon  him,  a  bolt  from  a  clear  sky. 
It  is  not  so  sad,  so  hard  to  bear,  if  one  becomes 
blind  gradually,  if  one  sickens  gradually — dies 
gradually.  There  is  a  wonderful  faculty  of 
adjustment  to  circumstances  and  environ- 
ments in  the  weakest  and  timidest  and  most 
shrinking  of  souls.  God  is  kind  even  in  death ; 
and  Nature,  like  a  gentle  mother,  always 
soothes  us,  holds  us  sweetly  to  her  breast  ere 
she  puts  us  to  sleep. 

But  oh,  these  sudden  things  that  crush  and 
annihilate  before  the  soul  can  brace  itself  for 
the  shock  ! 

He  was  a  prosperous  business  man,  the 
livest,  most  active,  most  far-seeing  in  the  town. 
Planning,  doing,  working — bubbling  with  life 
and  ambition  —  a  hundred  interests  in  his 
hands.  A  man  who  saw,  and,  seeing,  enjoyed 
life  as  few  men  do.  For  he  did  the  rare  thing 
of  taking  time,  even  in  his  business,  to  enjoy 
life.  A  great  mixer,  so  to  speak — a  great 
knower  of  men.  A  lover  of  fields  and  woods, 

and  therefore  a  poet.     To  this  he  would  de- 
20 


The  Blind  Man 

mur,  tut  I  always  thought  so.  And  every- 
thing is  poetry  to  the  man  who  thinks  they 
are  poems.  A  marksman,  an  angler,  a  horse- 
man— open-hearted,  jolly — a  full-blooded  man 
in  everything. 

But  one  day  the  bank  failed,  and  before 
sunset  he  was  a  bankrupt. 

He  was  full  of  wise  saws,  too.  As  I  never 
could  find  them  in  books,  I  always  believed  he 
made  them  himself.  And  so  that  evening 
when  I  wrung  his  hand  in  sympathy,  to  my 
surprise  he  laughed  as  jollily  as  ever  he  did, 
and  said :  "  Cowards  quit  in  the  back-stretch, 
Ned  ;  good  blood  never  gives  up." 

I  think  he  got  that  from  his  love  of  good 
horses. 

The  next  week  as  he  walked  down  the 
streets  of  the  town  he  was  seen  to  fall.  It 
was  apoplexy.  For  two  days  he  was  uncon- 
scious. When  he  awoke  he  tried  to  see, 
but  it  was  dark.  It  has  remained  dark  with 
him  ever  since.  I  was  with  him  when  he 
waked. 

"Ned,"  he  said,  "light  a  lamp,  my  boy;  it 

should  be  nearly  day." 
21 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

1  went  over,  took  his  hand  and  sat  on  the 
bedside. 

"  It  is  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and  the 
sun  is  shining  through  the  west  window.  I 
was  just  going  to  draw  the  shade  and  shut  it 
from  your  eyes,"  I  said  as  gently  as  I  could. 

It  was  only  a  moment  that  I  saw  his  cheek 
blanch,  his  hands  clinch.  Then  he  smiled  in 
his  cheery  old  way,  and  said:  "Well,  but  I'm 
glad  I'm  alive,  even  if  I  can't  see.  No,  I 
don't  think  I'll  need  any  more  shades,  Ned  ; 
it  is  midnight  with  me." 

It  was  an  hour  before  he  spoke  again.  I  had 
busied  myself  about  the  room,  but  when  I 
looked  at  him  he  was  trying  to  find  a  hand- 
kerchief under  his  pillow.  He  gave  it  up  and 
had  to  ask  me  to  find  it  for  him.  When  I 
handed  it  to  him  he  smiled  through  his  tears 
and  repeated  Milton's  sonnet  to  his  blindness. 
I  shall  never  forget  his  interpretation  of  the 
last  line  : 

"  They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 
But  that  was  all ;  and  even  the  next  week, 
when  a  friend  forgot  himself  and  sympathized 
with  him,  he  laughed  and  added  another  saw 

22 


The  Blind  Man 

to  his  sayings  :  "  Don't  weep  over  your  own 
misfortunes  until  you  fail  to  find  some  one 
who  has  greater  ones." 

Before  he  was  able  to  be  up  he  seemed  to 
have  planned  it  all  out,  and  with  a  negro  boy 
to  lead  him  he  was  soon  as  busy  a  man  as 
ever  —  and  more  cheerful.  "For  cheerful- 
ness," he  would  always  say,  "is  the  smile 
the  soul  owes  to  its  Maker." 

It  was  positive  sunlight  to  be  near  him,  an 
inspiration  to  be  with  him. 

To-day,  as  I  have  often  done,  I  drove  by  his 
place  to  give  him  an  airing  and  take  him  to 
my  farm  in  the  outskirts  of  town.  I  am  will- 
ing to  admit  that  I  am  selfish  enough  to  wish 
to  garner  up  his  wisdom.  I  need  this  blind 
man  to  help  me  to  see. 

As  we  drove  a  merry  clip  down  the  pike  he 
said,  "Let  me  feel  of  her  mouth,  Ned;  I 
used  to  love  to  pull  the  ribbons  over  a  good 
horse  myself.  Just  keep  us  in  the  road,  and 
I  won't  need  help  until  I  go  to  pass  some  one. 
Did  you  ever  think  of  it,  my  boy,  that  it's  so 
in  life  ?  It's  dealing  with  other  people  that 

brings  in  the  rub  of  life.    We  always  get  along 
23 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

smoothly  enough  by  ourselves.  It's  the  pass« 
ings  of  life,  the  obligations  we  owe  to  others, 
that  we  must  be  careful  of." 

We  had  driven  a  mile  when  he  handed  me 
back  the  lines  and  said,  "There  are  some 
very  light  clouds  in  the  west.  They  are  mak- 
ing the  sun  just  hazy  enough  to  be  soothing 
and  good — not  too  hot.  What  a  lovely  day  to 
look  at  Nature  !  Do  you  see  the  blue  in  that 
patch  of  clouds  in  the  west,  Ned  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  smiled  ;  "but  how  did  you  see  it  ? 
How  did  you  know  there  were  clouds  in  the 
west?" 

"We  blind  people  see  more  than  you  other 
people  know.  There  is  compensation  in  every- 
thing. We  don't  lose  anything  in  life,  unless 
we  throw  it  away  ourselves.  I  can  see  the  skies 
and  clouds  more  distinctly  than  ever,  because 
the  spirit  eye  is  truer  than  the  physical  eye. 
As  for  the  clouds,  that's  easy  enough.  It 
doesn't  take  a  blind  man  long  to  become  very 
sensitive  to  outside  influences.  He  soon  feels 
the  difference  when  the  sun  is  shining  through 
a  cloud  or  a  mist  and  when  it  shines  through 
the  unclouded  skies." 

24. 


The  Blind  Man 

At  the  farm  I  left  him  in  the  buggy  while  I 
went  around  to  give  orders  for  the  morning's 
work.  The  mare  was  given  her  head  and 
was  quietly  cropping  the  blue  grass  beneath 
when  I  came  back  an  hour  afterwards,  flushed 
and  tired. 

"  You  people  that  can  see  and  must  walk 
around,"  he  laughed,  "worry  a  great  deal 
about  life.  You  really  lose  a  great  deal  of  real 
life.  Now,  while  you  were  away  on  your 
business  I  have  had  a  delightful  sunbath  and 
heard  an  orchestra  that  beats  anything  you 
pay  a  dollar  for  in  a  theatre.  How  many 
birds  do  you  suppose  I  have  counted  since  you 
left?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  I  said.  "  I  don't  see 
how  you  have  counted  any.  I  don't  see  any." 

"Sixteen.  Now,  don't  take  my  word  for 
it,  because  I'm  blind,  you  know  ;  but  just  look 
and  see  for  yourself  as  I  point  them  out  to 
you." 


TWO  PREACHERS. 

TWO  preachers  were  preachin*  the  other 
day, 

An'  both  of  their  sermons  I  heard; 
One  preached  like  a  preacher  the  same  old 

way, 
But  the  other  one  preached  like  a  bird. 

"  You  must  join  my  church  or  be  lost — lost — 
lost," 

The  one  in  the  pulpit  did  say, 
But  he  in  the  tree  his  little  head  toss'd 

An*  kept  on  a  singin'  away. 

"  An'  my  creed  is  this,  an'  my  creed  is  that," 

Said  he  of  the  pulpit  that  day, 
But  he  of  the  tree  stood  firm  an*  pat 

An*  sang  on  in  his  sweet  little  way. 

Then  he  of  the  pulpit  he  talked  of  fire 
An'  spoke  of  a  wrath  above, 
27 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

But  the  song  from  the  tree  rose  higher  an* 

higher, 
An'  the  soul  of  that  song  was — love. 

An'  it  lifted  me  up  on  the  wings  of  the  song, 

Up — up  to  my  Maker  above, 
Till  my  heart  it  repented  of  every  wrong 

An'  my  soul  it  jus'  bubbled  with  love  ! 

Two  preachers  were  preachin' — Yes,  that  is 
the  rule, 

An*  those  were  the  sermons  I  heard — 
An'  the  one  in  the  pulpit — he  was  a  fool — 

But  the  one  in  the  tree  was  a  bird  t 


CHAPTER  III. 

I  GOT  into  the  buggy  with  him.  It  was  one 
of  those  evenings  Spring  so  often  gives  us, 
in  which  the  day  seems  verily  to  live  and 
breathe.  One  of  those  which,  if  you  tickle  it, 
it  will  laugh,  if  you  scold  it,  it  will  weep — make 
love  to  it  and  it  will  cling,  Juliet-like,  around 
your  neck. 

The  Blind  Man  was  very  much  interested. 
His  whole  countenance  changes  when  he  be- 
comes interested.  His  soul,  like  some  fiery 
star,  shone  in  the  blue  vaults  of  his  earnest 
eyes.  It  is  true  it  is  night  there,  but  it  only 
makes  the  stars  shine  the  brighter. 

"Ned,"  he  said,  "it  is  a  grand,  a  glorious 
thing  to  love  the  things  that  God  made — to 
love  them,  and  through  them  Him  that  made 
them.  But  it  is  also  sweet  to  be  loved  by 

them.     And  He  is  so  much  better  to  us  than 
29 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

we  deserve.  He  has  made  things  so  beautiful 
and  pure  and  wholesome  around  us  ;  so  abund- 
ant and  varied,  so  simple,  so  fitted  for  our 
needs,  so  appropriate  and  altogether  good. 
And,  Ned,  sometimes  I  think  we  don't  appre- 
ciate them. 

"  He  has  made  everything  so  fitting  for  us, 
and  if  we  be  but  truthful  and  pure,  we  fit 
them.  For  a  truth  fits  every  other  truth  in 
the  world,  but  a  lie  fits  nothing  but  some  other 
lie  made  especially  for  it. 

"  Take  the  material  things  He  has  given  us, 
Ned,  and  consider  them — all  the  way  from  the 
fruit  of  the  fields  to  the  ripened  fruit  of  the 
vine.  And  things  ornamental,  from  the  jewels 
of  the  hills  to  those  of  our  hearthstone.  And 
things  beautiful,  from  the  dew-drop  in  the 
bosom  of  the  flower  to  the  star  in  the  bosom  of 
the  sky.  And  loving  things,  things  that  make 
life  holy  and  lovely  and  all  to  be  desired — from 
the  love  that  comes  up  from  our  cradles  and 
friends,  even  unto  that  surpassing  love  that 
comes  from  the  heart  of  God  Himself.  Take 
them  all,  from  the  plenty  of  the  earth  and  the 
plenty  of  the  sea,  and  the  plenty  of  the  air — 


Two  Preachers 

Oh,  how  I  love  the  birds ! — and  the  glorious 
prodigality  of  the  heavens  which  declare  His 
glory.  And  all  so  beautiful,  wholesome  and 
pure. 

"  And  the  beauty  of  it,  Ned,  He  is  so  gen- 
erous. He's  giving  us  so  much — and  we  need 
so  little.  And  we  are  so  foolish,  Ned,  such 
children.  He  has  laid  down  so  few  laws  for 
our  happiness,  and  we  have  made  them  so 
many,  and  even  these  have  failed  to  attain 
their  ends.  And  so  few  for  our  health,  and, 
behold,  our  doctors  and  our  drugs  ! 

"  '  Love  one  another,'  He  says  ;  '  be  truth- 
ful; do  not  covet,  lie,  steal,  murder,  nor 
be  impure  in  thought  or  deed.'  That's  all. 
Isn't  it  simple  enough  ?  And  yet,  see  the 
changes  and  ramifications  of  man,  until  society 
has  more  laws  than  Rome  under  Caligula,  and 
fashion  is  a  greater  tyrant  than  Nero  ;  and  the 
churches,  Ned — they  are  all  right  and  the  best 
things  we  have  to  direct  us  here,  but  they 
seem  to  need  more  forms  and  creeds  and  by- 
laws than  God  did  when  he  made  the  world. 

"  Hello,  but  that's  preaching  ;  isn't  it,  Ned  ? 
Pshaw  !  a  man  mustn't  do  that.  It's  so  easy 
31 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

to  do  it.  The  hard  thing,  Ned,  is  to  live 
a  sermon.  Now,  birds  live  sermons — they 
do,  old  fellow  ! — sermons  with  a  choir  attach- 
ment. And  where  will  you  find  anything  bet- 
ter than  the  hymnal  of  their  songs  ?  More 
than  all  that,  they  are  everything  that  people 
are,  and  more.  They  are  nearer  human  than 
anything  lower  than  man.  Birds  alone  come 
nearer  to  ideal  married  life  in  the  rearing  of 
their  young  and  the  care  and  protection  both 
parents  give  to  their  offspring  than  anything 
else.  All  the  others  of  the  lower  world  leave 
the  care  of  the  children  to  the  mother  alone — 
not  so  with  the  birds.  They  are  the  tender- 
est  and  most  loving  of  husbands,  the  most 
affectionate  and  thoughtful  of  fathers.  Sing- 
ing to,  caressing,  feeding  his  wife  as  she  sits 
upon  the  eggs.  Helping  her  feed  and  rear  the 
little  ones  when  they  are  born — yes,  Ned, 
born — for  I've  seen  many  humans  whom  you 
could  not  honor  with  the  assertion  that  they 
were  even  hatched  ! 

"  Human  !  Why,  Ned,  they  are  poets  and 
artists,  philosophers,  statesmen,  warriors, 
mathematicians,  everything.  They  know 


Two  Preachers 

more  about  the  weather,  the  tides,  the  winds 
and  the  stars  than  we  do.  More  about  Nature 
than  man  ever  conceived  in  his  selfishness. 
More  about  God  than  all  the  priests.  Every 
bird-life  is  an  ideal  love-life.  Each  little  one 
that  lives  and  breathes  fills  a  predestined  niche 
in  the  great  temple  of  Time,  is  a  tiny  link  in 
the  chain  of  the  great  That  Is.  The  ruthless 
destruction  of  any  one,  for  whatever  cause, 
whether  for  sport  or  to  adorn  the  upper  ex- 
tremity of  some  less  beautiful  and  lovely  creat- 
ure, throws  the  rules  of  truth,  the  laws  of  the 
universe,  that  much  out  of  balance. 

"After  you  left  me,"  he  said,  after  a  pause, 
"  I  sat  here  in  the  mellow  sunlight  and  just 
began  to  listen  to  see  how  many  of  them  I 
could  see.  An  early  cardinal  sprang  first 
from  a  thicket,  mounted  the  topmost  twig  of 
that  sugar  maple,  and  slyly  and  quietly  fired 
his  first  rapid-fire  love-notes  in  the  face  of 
the  world  for  the  pure  fun  of  the  thing,  and 
darted  back  into  the  thicket.  How  did  I 
know  it  was  a  sugar  maple  ?  Because  I 
knew  it  was  in  full  leafage,  that  it  is  always 
among  the  first  to  leaf  in  the  spring,  and  the 
3  33 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

cardinal  is  too  shy  to  expose  himself  in  a  naked 
tree. 

"It  was  some  time  before  another  came  on 
the  boards — this  time  it  was  the  king  of  all 
wrens — the  Carolina  wren.  He  gave  me  a 
pretty  little  solo,  with  a  flirting  tail  accompani- 
ment, from  the  hedge  yonder.  Then  a  crow 
flew  over  me,  and  the  way  he  was  burning  the 
air  was  a  lesson.  I  knew  what  was  the  mat- 
ter— the  thieving  rascal  had  been  caught  plun- 
dering by  the  king  bird,  and  that  game  little 
fellow,  that  will  fight  a  buzz-saw  or  an  army 
in  Flanders,  was  scurrying  him  through  the 
air  with  a  chastisement  he'll  not  soon  forget. 
A  blue-jay  lit  in  that  oak  there,  and  bobbed 
around  a  while,  imitating  the  call  of  a  chicken 
hawk.  He  is  a  beautiful  fellow — I  wish  he 
were  half  as  good.  In  the  distance  I  caught 
the  notes  of  a  butcher-bird — the  formidable 
shrike.  Talk  about  human — why,  that  fellow 
is  the  finest  example  of  original  sin,  in  origi- 
nal man,  in  the  world.  Like  his  prototype, 
he  butchers  for  the  pure  love  of  it,  and  unable 
to  consume  all  he  kills,  he  hangs  the  rest  in 
the  smoke-house  to  sell,  perhaps,  to  his  less 
34 


Two  Preachers 

fortunate  brother,  and  cheat  him,  if  he  can,  in 
the  transaction.  If  his  name  isn't  Cain  I'd 
like  to  know  why.  A  crested  fly-catcher 
dashed  out  from  the  top  of  that  telegraph-pole, 
took  in  some  luckless  moth,  wheeled  suddenly 
in  the  air,  uttered  his  quick,  triumphant  note, 
and  settled  down  in  the  same  place,  waiting 
for  another  one.  Two  mating  doves  flew  up 
from  the  stubble-field  near  the  road  when  a 
vehicle  passed.  I  knew  them,  of  course,  by 
the  peculiar  whistle  of  their  wings  when  they 
flew  over  me.  Then,  as  the  hour  went  by, 
one  by  one  I  counted  the  notes  of  the  pewee, 
the  pretty  song  of  the  vesper  sparrow,  the 
chirps  of  the  white-crowned  and  the  white- 
throated  sparrow,  the  chicadee,  purple  martin, 
cat-bird,  and  the  detestable,  wheezing  chirp  of 
the  cow-bird.  By  the  way,  Ned,  who  ever 
saw  anything  more  human  than  the  cow-bird, 
laying  its  big  eggs  in  the  nest  of  some  other 
bird,  to  starve  out  and  crowd  out  a  gentler 
brood,  and  transmit  the  selfish  lesson  of  its 
heredity  down  the  line  of  its  life. 

"  That's   what  I've  counted,  Ned,  in  one 
hour  —  sixteen!      Isn't    it    glorious?      Give 
35 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

me  another  hour  and  I'll  count  that  many 
more." 

We  both  bowed  our  heads  and  listened.  A 
mocking-bird,  which  I  had  observed  for  ten 
minutes  sitting  on  the  topmost  twig  of  a  wild 
cherry  tree  near  us,  with  that  calm  quietness 
and  serene  look  of  faith  in  his  powers  and  in 
himself  with  which  a  prima  donna  would  sur- 
vey a  gallery  of  expectant  listeners,  suddenly 
broke  the  pent-up  emotions  of  his  soul  with  a 
few  nervous,  rapid-fire,  but  soft  and  sweet 
notes.  These  leaped  quickly  upward  and 
abroad,  ablaze  and  aglow,  as  a  spark  runs 
through  a  sedge-field.  In  a  moment  ne  had 
fired  the  very  air-waves  with  the  touch  of  his 
genius — had  burned  the  wind  with  melody. 
For  a  half  hour  we  spoke  not,  only  listened. 
And  then  the  great  musician  flew  away,  sing- 
ing as  he  went. 

I  looked  up.  There  were  tears  in  the  Blind 
Man's  eyes. 

"  Ned,  the  other  day  I  went  to  church  and 
had  the  misfortune  to  hear  a  little  bigot 
preach.  There  are  glorious  men  in  the  pulpit, 

Ned,  but  there  are  lots  of  little  bigots  there, 
36 


Two  Preachers 

who  would  burn  a  man  at  the  stake  yet  for 
not  believing  in  their  own  peculiar  doctrines. 
It  is  strange,  too,  they  will  let  these  little  fel- 
lows preach.  Every  other  man  must  be  edu- 
cated for  his  profession,  but  all  that  one  needs 
is  an  abiding  faith  that  he  has  been  called. 
Well,  it  was  my  misfortune  to  hear  one  of 
them.  But  the  windows  were  up,  fortunately, 
and  one  of  those  glorious  singers — shall  I  say 
preachers  ? — from  a  near-by  tree  began  the 
sermon  of  his  song.  Do  you  wonder  I  heard 
only  it?" 

The  sun  was  setting  when  we  started  back 
to  town.  Down  behind  a  bank  of  clouds  he 
sank,  throwing  a  hundred  fan-like  radiations 
half  way  across  the  heavens.  I  did  not  say 
anything  about  the  beauty  of  it  because  I  did 
not  wish  to  remind  the  Blind  Man  of  his  loss. 
He  himself  broke  the  silence  by  saying, 

"Yes,  I  should  love  to  see  the  sunset  you 
are  looking  at.  But  I  can  see  one  as  plainly 
as  yours.  It  was  in  Montana  once — I  was 
on  a  hunting  trip.  It  was  in  that  clear  pure 
atmosphere,  and  I  can  see  it  to-day  as  plainly 
as  then.  To  me,,  now,  when  I  can  see  no 
37 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

longer,  it  looks  like  the  vestibule  of  heaven 
in  the  twilight  hours  when  the  Angels  pray — 
lit  with  lamps  of  every  colored  star,  reflected 
back  from  walls  of  jasper  and  pearl." 

Presently  we  swept  into  an  avenue  of 
stately  trees  along  the  pike.  A  brick  resi- 
dence, with  four  pillars  fitting  under  a  simple 
frieze  and  flanked  with  two  wings,  sat  in  a 
grove  on  a  gentle  slope. 

"Why,  it  is  Fairview,"  said  the  Blind 
Man.  "I  wonder  if  the  Philips  girls  have 
got  back  home.  They  graduated  last  month 
and  have  been  in  Washington  since,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  turn  in  the  road,  I  saw  a  phae- 
ton and  a  horse,  my  heart  jumped  quickly, 
and  a  merry  laugh  rang  out  as  1  pulled  up  the 
mare. 

"Oh,  it's  old  Tem— bless  his  heart!" 
There  was  a  quick  scrambling  from  the  phae- 
ton and  a  gliding  in  among  my  wheels. 

"And  Ned,  too, — isn't  this  sudden,  Ber- 
nice?"  she  laughed  to  her  companion,  who 
sat  in  the  phaeton  holding  the  lines  and  nod- 
ding smilingly  at  us. 

She  had  shaken  my  hand  with  scarce  a 
38 


Two  Preachers 

glance,  I  thought,  then  hurried  on  and  held 
the  Blind  Man's  in  both  of  hers. 

"  Tem,  you  old  owl,  how  are  you  ?  And 
why  didn't  you  answer  my  last  letter  ?" 

The  Blind  Man's  face  broke  into  a  radiant 
smile. 

"  Thesis ! "  he  laughed  and  shouted — 
"Speak  of  angels,  you  know."  And,  reaching 
out,  he  drew  her  into  the  buggy  with  us. 

"This  will  crowd  me  out,"  I  said,  "so  I'll 
exchange  with  her,  Bernice,"  and  I  went  over 
to  the  phaeton.  Thesis  gave  me  a  half-re- 
proachful glance  and  then  nestled  by  the  Blind 
Man's  side  in  her  old  way,  and  they  were 
soon  telling  each  other  all  they  knew — the 
wonderful  happenings  in  the  town  since  she 
had  seen  him  nearly  a  year  ago. 

I  was  never  fully  at  home  with  Bernice — I 
do  not  think  anybody  was.  There  are  char- 
acters and  characters,  but  now  and  then  there 
comes  along  a  beautiful,  flawless  being  whom 
we  may  worship  but  never  know.  She  was 
more  beautiful  than  ever — more  reserved  too, 
this  evening,  I  thought.  This  made  it  scarcely 
possible  for  me  to  pass  the  little  frivolities  of 
39 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

local  happenings  with  her.  But  she  told  me 
in  her  sweet,  dignified  way,  of  their  school 
triumphs  and  graduation.  She  was  describ- 
ing the  Corcoran  Art  Gallery  when  I  heard 
Thesis  laugh  out  and  exclaim, 

"  Ned,  what  do  you  think  Tem  is  saying 
about  you  ?" 

"That  I  am  in  love  with  something,  but 
don't  know  myself  what,"  1  replied. 

They  both  gave  a  laugh  in  unison. 

"  My  exact  words,"  cried  the  Blind  Man. 

After  leaving  the  Blind  Man  at  his  home, 
Miss  Cynthia  met  me  with  a  note  at  my  own 
gate.  I  had  not  told  the  Blind  Man  that  I  had 
sent  a  basket  of  all  kinds  of  flowers  gathered 
from  Miss  Cynthia's  collection  in  the  flower 
garden  to  Blythewood  that  afternoon.  I  had 
sent  the  huge  basket  to  both  of  them,  and 
another  of  strawberries — old  Wash's  best 
pickings.  1  had  hoped  Thesis  would  answer 
the  note.  Instead  it  was  from  Bernice. 

"Women  are  queer  creatures,  Miss  Cyn- 
thia," 1  said. 

"Yes,  they  are  daughters  of  men,"  she  re- 
marked. 

40 


ART  IN  NATURE 

trees  are  but  the  brushes  of  the  sky 
1      Dipped  deep  in  green.   Above,  a  canopy 
No  mortal  yet  hath  painted.     From  hill  below 
To  where  the  purp'ling  rivers  flow, 
From  thousand-tinted  sky  and  cloud, 
Where  light  and  shadows  laugh  aloud, 
From  shifting  shade  o'er  sea  and  land — 
O  painting  from  the  Master's  hand  ! 


CHAPTER    IV. 

HPHAT  man  but  half  lives  who  does  not  live 
1  on  a  farm.  He  may  see  more  things  in 
a  city,  perhaps ;  that  is,  see  more  superficial 
things,  superficially.  But  if  he  grow,  he  must 
grow  from  the  ground  up.  There  is  a  Greek 
myth  about  a  man  who  gathered  renewed 
strength  every  time  he  fell  on  his  mother 
earth.  The  Greek  myths  were  the  concen- 
trated wisdom  of  the  Greek  ages. 

You  may  figure  it  out,  but  nothing  good  or 
great  ever  came  out  of  those  places  where  men 
wall  out  the  sunlight  and  air  and  call  them 
cities.  Many  of  the  good  and  great  are  there. 
1  am  not  denying  that,  but  they  did  not  grow 
there — they  went  there  after  they  had  their 
growth.  And  they  got  their  growth  from  the 
soil.  For  the  principal  element  of  soil-growth 
is  strength,  earnestness  and  honesty,  and  the 
soil-children  who  have  them  always  succeed. 
43 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

It  takes  a  splendid  combination  of  good 
parts  to  make  a  complete  success,  but  I  have 
never  known  a  dead  earnest  and  honest  man 
or  woman  yet  to  be  a  dead  failure.  There  is 
something  so  God-like  in  it  that  even  if  mis- 
directed they  half  succeed  by  sheer  weight  of 
their  moral  force.  Prayer  is  the  ripened  fruit 
of  faith — of  earnestness.  A  man  believing 
there  is  a  God,  and  earnestly  praying  to  Him 
to  be  better  and  greater,  will  be  better  and 
greater  whether  there  be  a  God  or  not.  I  do 
not  mean  great  in  the  ordinary  accepted  sense 
— intellectually,  brilliantly  great — for  that  de- 
pends more  on  the  honesty  and  earnestness  of 
one's  ancestors  than  on  oneself ;  but  in  the 
true  sense — honestly,  nobly  great.  Neither 
do  1  mean  to  intimate  that  there  is  no  God ; 
for  I  was  not  born  in  a  cocoanut  shell,  but 
under  the  studded  canopy  of  His  own  home, 
where  I  have  only  to  look  up  and  see  Him. 
And  1  thank  Him  daily  that,  like  Sallust  of  my 
school  days,  He  has  placed  my  head  where  I 
would  not,  like  the  ox,  have  to  look  down- 
ward to  the  grass,  but  where  1  might  always 
look  upward  to  Him. 

44 


Art  in  Nature 

And  so,  as  I  was  saying,  a  man  but  half 
lives  who  does  not  live  on  a  farm.  There  he 
may  always  look  up,  and  his  view  will  be  un- 
clouded by  smoke  and  unobscured  by  walls. 
O,  the  glory  and  beauty  of  it ! 

And  a  farm  is  but  half , a  farm  which  has  not 
its  bunch  of  Jersey  cows.  There  is  a  locust 
thicket  in  my  blue-grass  pasture  where,  in  the 
heat  of  the  day,  the  cows  love  to  lie  down  and 
assimilate  the  garnered  herbage  for  which 
they  have  labored  all  the  morning.  If  brain- 
workers  would  only  do  like  cows :  gather  up 
their  material  as  they  walk  around  in  the 
fields  and  the  woods  and  assimilate  it  while 
resting — do  their  best  work,  their  assimilative 
work,  as  they  rested,  they — well,  they  would 
have  more  brains  !  For  no  man  has  ever 
done  really  good  work  until  he  has  lain  down 
in  the  grass  with  some  of  God's  creatures  and 
learned  of  himself  by  watching  them.  It  is 
thought  that  makes  brain,  and  no  great  brain- 
worker  was  ever  a  great  reader  of  others. 

This  locust  thicket  with  the  cows  scattered 
through  and  in  it,  lying  amid  the  flowers  and 
grasses  like  fawn-colored  nymphs  in  a  sea  of 
45 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

blue  and  emerald,  is  an  exquisite  picture  from 
nature's  brush.  The  Southdowns  are  there, 
too,  in  a  flock ;  and  lying  in  the  further  end 
of  it,  viewed  as  I  see  them  from  my  resting- 
place  in  the  grass,  they  are  not  unlike  that 
stream  of  white  light  which  painters  some- 
times throw  into  their  pictures  to  set  off  the 
darker  shades. 

The  tangled  and  brambled  wood  is  the  back- 
ground, the  blue  and  still  more  faintly  blue 
hills,  beyond,  the  softened  and  subdued  per- 
spective ;  while  on  the  living  canvas  the  faint- 
er shadows  flit  about  like  sweet,  sad  smiles 
dropped  from  the  lips  of  the  passing  night, 
and,  Naiad  like,  await  in  their  dark,  cool 
caves,  till  she  pass,  to  rejoin  her  again. 

A  picture  on  canvas  once  painted  is  for- 
ever fixed.  Not  so  with  the  one  which  nature 
paints.  1  have  been  there  at  all  times  of  the 
day,  and,  though  always  beautiful,  it  is  never 
the  same.  It  is  darker  and  fuller  of  shadows 
in  the  morning  and  evening.  At  noon  it  is 
lit  up  with  the  softened  splendor  of  a  light 
which,  falling  through  feathery  leaf  and  clus- 
ters of  locust  blossoms,  is  more  a  refined  glory, 
46 


Art  in  Nature 

a  soft  radiance,  the  halo  of  heaven's  smile 
passed  through  sieves  of  crystal,  than  it  is 
light.  The  perspective  of  a  painted  picture 
stares  one  in  the  face  day  after  day,  with  a 
fixed  sameness.  But  O,  the  ever-changing 
tints  in  the  distant  hills  around  this  one  ! 

In  the  morning,  tint  after  tint  or  varying 
blue — from  deepest  blue  in  the  gloaming  of 
sunrise,  and  the  brown-blue  of  the  fuller  light 
of  morn,  to  the  purpling-blue  of  sunset — 
changing  from  blue  to  blue-brown  and  from 
blue-brown  to  blue,  measuring  their  moods 
with  the  progress  of  the  sun,  changing  their 
gowns,  like  a  queenly  woman,  morning,  noon 
and  night,  to  catch  the  eye  of  him,  their  lover 
lord,  until,  as  night  comes  on,  they  throw  over 
their  head  and  shoulders  a  silvery  sheen — laces 
of  starlight — and  in  a  bodice  of  red  and  a  gown 
of  purple  they  meet  and  kiss  him  in  the  twi- 
light. And  above  shine  the  stars,  the  stars 
of  locust  blossoms  ;  and  beneath,  the  never- 
dying,  never-changing  splendor  of  that  grass 
which  is  the  emblem  of  immortality. 

And  the  cows — I  love  to  lie  down  with  them, 
right  in  their  midst  and  right  down  on  the 
47 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

grass — for,  as  I  said,  if  one  really  wishes  to 
learn  something,  one  must  lie  down  with 
nature.  And  so  when  I  really  wish  to  think, 
to  solve  the  problems  that  confront  me  daily, 
I  go  out  to  that  cool  and  shady  spot  and  talk 
it  over  with  the  cows. 

I  love  to  talk  to  the  cows — and  to  Miss 
Cynthia.  But  I  believe  I'd  rather  talk  to  the 
cows  than  to  Miss  Cynthia,  because  they 
never  ask  any  questions. 

Besides,  though  I  love  a  horse  and  all  others 
of  our  domestic  animals,  still  it  is  my  deliber- 
ate opinion  that  the  Jersey  cow  is  the  most 
perfect  animal  that  lives.  From  the  big,  ten- 
der and  thoughtful  eyes,  which  give  so  much 
character  to  her  clean-cut,  dished  and  bony 
face,  to  the  dainty  switch  that  graces  her 
tapering  tail,  there  is  not  another  animal  that 
walks  the  earth  with  more  grace  and  beauty, 
and  combining  it  all  with  so  much  usefulness. 

Men  may  gamble  on  horses,  but  there  is  no 
temptation  about  a  Jersey  cow.  All  her 
paths  lead  to  sweetness,  contentment,  honest 
living  and  broader  thinking.  The  sight  of  the 

clean,  white  dairy,  pungent  with  the  odor  o*» 
48 


Art  in  Nature 

ripening  milk  and  cooling  cream  in  the  dark- 
ling waters,  is  itself  a  sermon  on  holy  living  ; 
while  the  tinkling  of  the  tiny  streams  that 
purl  around  the  gold-stamped  tray  of  butter  is 
the  music  that  accompanies  it. 

Follow  her  into  the  fields,  and  unless  your 
ancestors  have  thrown  off  on  you  terribly  in 
the  formation  of  your  head,  you  will  see  life 
in  all  its  beauty  and  truth,  you  will  grow 
better  and  broader  each  day  as  you  learn 
that  the  universe  is  infinitely  immense,  God 
infinitely  great,  and  you  infinitely  small. 
But  the  greatest  lesson  she  teaches  is  the 
lesson  Americans  especially  most  need  to-day. 
I  mean  the  wisdom  of  growing  slow  but  sure  ; 
the  unexcelled  policy  of  declaring  small  but 
regular  dividends — the  triumphant  business 
sense  of  basing  your  business  on  the  honest 
needs  of  mankind.  True,  you  do  not  win 
forty  dollars  by  her  to-day  and  lose  it  to-mor- 
row, but  she  gives  you  daily  a  pound  of  butter 
worth  that  many  cents,  and  while  you  are 
gathering  in  the  many  "  mickles  that  make  the 
muckle,"  she  and  the  grass-roots  are  making 
your  land  rich. 

4  49 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

The  oldest  of  my  cows  is  Content, — Content 
of  Lynwood  ;  that's  the  name  of  my  farm.  In 
talking  I  always  address  my  remarks  to  Con- 
tent chiefly,  because  she  is  a  fine  listener. 

"  Content,"  I  said,  "this  is  a  more  beauti- 
ful picture  than  one  sees  on  canvas,  isn't  it  ? 
And  let  me  tell  you  another  thing :  you  living 
cows  are  more  beautiful  than  all  the  dead 
statues  in  the  world. 

"  It  makes  me  smile,  Content,  to  see  people 
going  across  the  ocean  to  see  works  of  art 
when  they  might  walk  out  into  a  meadow  and 
see  such  a  picture  as  this.  Going  across  the 
sea  to  rave  over  broken-armed  and  broken- 
hearted Venuses,  dug  out  of  Pompeii,  copied 
after  Greek  Aphrodites,  dug  out  of  heaven 
knows  where,  when  all  they  would  have  to  do 
is  to  tap  one  of  you  with  a  cluster  of  locust 
blossoms  and  make  you  stand  up,  straighten 
your  beautiful  and  silver-golden  sheen,  to  see 
the  most  perfect  statue  in  the  world. 

"Stand  up,  Content!  There  now,  let's 
compare  you  with  the  Venus. 

"  Broad  hips  (they  say  that's  a  strong  point 

with  the  Venus) — why  'twould  take  a  yard- 
50 


Art  in  Nature 

stick  to  measure  yours.  And  ankles — (that's 
another  boast  of  the  Venus) — well,  I  can  span 
yours  with  my  thumb  and  middle  finger.  Now 
I  am  told  these  are  the  two  strong  points  about 
the  Venuses,  Content.  If  so,  they  are  not  in 
it  with  you. 

"  And  in  looks — that  sinewy  health  and  lack 
of  surplus  flesh — why  no  Spartan  maid  is  your 
equal.  Your  eyes  ?  They  are  great,  still, 
calm  lakes  of  poetry.  Not  a  line  about  you 
that  is  not  a  line  of  beauty.  And  from  the 
tapering  turn  of  your  little  curving  horns  to 
the  big  golden  quarters  of  an  udder  tucked 
well  up  behind  and  well  out  in  front,  I  am 
willing  again  to  declare  that  no  Venus — hi — 
ho — but  where  was  I  at  ? 

"  Ah,  yes,  on  the  subject  of  art.  And  that 
reminds  me,  Content,  of  the  great  amount  of 
sham  and  fraud  that  is  practiced  under  that 
name.  It  is  with  art  as  it  is  with  incompre- 
hensible poetry — people  rave  over  it  who  have 
no  conception  of  what  they  are  raving  about. 
They  go  on  about  the  Milos  and  Apollos  and 
the  other  naked  things  they  happen  to  see, 
when  their  artistic  calibre  is  about  large 
Si 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

enough  to  comprehend  the  flaming  posters  in 
the  village  blacksmith  shop,  announcing  the 
coming  of  a  company  of  soubrettes  in  a  melo- 
drama of  faded  hosiery. 

"  And  it  is  the  same  way  about  music.  It 
is  fashionable  and  quite  the  proper  thing  for 
us  to  applaud  all  the  vague,  visionary  and 
uncertain  notes  dished  into  one  piece  and 
passed  off  on  a  suffering  audience  as  classical 
music.  But  when  they  would  touch  the  human 
heart  they  must  go  back  to  the  sweet  old  heart- 
music — the  tunes  of  our  childhood. 

"  It  is  life  that  I  love,  Content — life,  not 
death.  And  so  a  Jersey  cow  is  more  beauti- 
ful to  me  than  a  Venus,  a  graceful  brood  mare 
than  Diana,  and  1  would  not  exchange  my 
saddle-horse  for  all  the  Apollos  that  ever  were 
mounted  on  a  pedestal. 

"  It  is  life  that  I  love,  Content — life,  not 
death.  And  suppose  these  statues  have  per- 
fect limbs  and  straight  noses  and  beautiful 
faces.  Suppose  they  do  look  as  if  they  were 
about  to  speak  or  about  to  move  ;  whenever  I 
look  up  into  their  eyes  and  see  the  big  sunken 
holes  in  the  marble  there,  I  am  shocked  and 
52 


Art  in  Nature 

disappointed.  Throughout  all  the  ages  no  one 
has  ever  been  able  to  put  a  single  spark  in  the 
only  place  the  light  was  needed — 'the  window 
of  the  soul.' 

"Ah,  Content,  turn  again  your  big,  calm 
eyes  on  me ;  they  make  me  satisfied  with  life." 


THE  THRASHER. 

of  brown  through    the  shadowy 
wood, 

Flash  of  wing  where  the  shadows  stood, 
Opening  notes  which  upward  rise, 
Burst  of  song  to  the  smiling  skies. 


CHAPTER  V. 

HPHERE  was  a  burst  of  flute- notes  from  the 
1  thickest  of  the  locust  trees  near  me.  It 
was  a  brown  thrasher,  the  first  I  had  seen.  But 
I  was  not  surprised,  for  I  knew  his  way  of  ar- 
riving suddenly  from  the  South  in  the  early 
Spring  days  and  beginning  housekeeping  as 
soon  as  he  could  unpack  his  things.  One  day 
there  would  not  be  a  thrasher  anywhere. 
The  next  day  they  would  all  be  there.  They 
seem  to  come  in  the  night  and  in  flocks. 

To-day  he  was  celebrating  his  arrival  with 
a  song  which,  though  not  varied  or  so  splen- 
did as  that  of  his  cousin,  the  mocking-bird,  or 
even  of  the  wood-thrush,  yet  it  was  full  of 
sweetness  and  homely  melody. 

Beginning  it  on  the  lowest  branches  of  the 
trees,  he  went  up  from  limb  to  limb,  slipping 
through  branches  and  emerald-sheen  leaves 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

like  a  brown  song-shaft  from  a  locust  bow. 
Then,  as  his  spirit  arose  to  its  highest  joy- 
mark,  he  sat  on  the  topmost  twig  of  a  blossom- 
ing branch,  and,  with  his  head  thrown  up  and 
back,  as  if  to  catch  inspiration  from  above, 
he  poured  out  his  one  triumphant,  bursting 
strain  to  the  unseen  stars. 

It  was  music  and  incense — the  music  of  the 
bird,  the  wild  incense  of  the  locust  blossom. 

O,  Nature  is  all  right.  She  knows  the 
sweet  things  of  life.  And  those  who  serve 
her,  whose  mistress  she  is,  and  whose  making 
she  is  mother  to,  these  always  bring  to  her 
their  sweetest  tributes. 

I  watched  the  bird  in  a  dreamy  sort  of 
pleasure.  His  bright,  yellow  eyes  were  ablaze 
with  inspiration.  His  long,  graceful  tail,  that 
had  before  stood  out  indifferently,  now  hung 
artistically  down.  With  his  head  thrown 
back,  he  was  oblivious  to  all  surroundings, 
singing,  not  in  arias  and  in  operas,  as  his  more 
gifted  cousins  might  have  done,  but  a  sweet, 
soothing  tune  which,  to  me,  was  not  unlike  an 
old-time  negro  melody. 

The  arrow-shaped  dots  on  his  breast,  cor- 
58 


The  Thrasher 

responding  to  the  heart-shaped  ones  on  the 
breast  of  the  wood-thrush,  shone  very  dis- 
tinctly in  the  sunlight.  The  two  white  bands 
on  his  partially-extended  wings,  mingled  with 
the  rufous  and  red-brown  above,  encircled 
him  with  a  halo  of  light,  and  clasped  him  as  a 
rainbow  girdles  the  waist  of  a  russet-red  cloud 
at  sunset. 

It  was  the  first  love-song  of  Spring. 

"  The  operas  of  the  mocking-bird  are  sweet, 
old  fellow."  1  thought  aloud,  "  but  these  child- 
hood melodies,  these  simple  songs  of  other 
days,  they  get  into  our  hearts."  When  he 
ceased,  there  was  that  silence  on  Nature's 
boards  which  follow  when  one  of  her  chil- 
dren has  soothed  all  the  others  with  the 
glory  of  his  genius.  No  demonstration,  no 
wild  applause,  no  flowers  save  those  already 
around  him,  no  encores.  Everything  seemed 
to  wish  to  be  quiet  and  think — to  take  on  life 
inwardly,  and  to  grow. 

The  fragrance  of  the  rich  perfume  from  the 

heavily-scented  blossoms  has  lost  its  strength, 

as  it  reaches  me,  and  floats  in  a  delicately 

sweet  odor  along  with  the  waves  that  ripple 

59 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

across  the  foot-high  wheat  in  the  adjoining 
field.  These  same  waves  have  tossed  a 
shower  of  blossoms  down  and  scattered  them 
over  the  broad,  silvery  backs  of  the  resting 
herd.  Resting  in  one  sense,  but  if  Miss  Cyn- 
thia were  here  now  she  would  not  think  that 
any  of  them  had  lost  her  cud. 

"This  is  an  ideal  day  to  talk  to  cows,"  I 
went  on.  "  My  walk  across  the  pasture  has 
made  me  tired,  and  this  grass  is  most  delight- 
fully cool  and  restful.  And  that  reminds  me, 
Content,  and  you  other  cows,  Kalita  and  Lass 
o'  Lowrie's,  and  Belle  Williamson,  and  Lady 
Feronia,  and  others,"  I  said  apologetically, 
with  a  broad  sweep  of  my  hand,  because  I 
thought  they  had  begun  to  eye  me  suspiciously 
for  listening  more  to  the  thrasher  than  to 
them,  "  1  am  peculiarly  discontented  to-day. 
A  young  man  in  love,  or  who  imagines  he  is, — 
and  it's  all  the  same,  Content, — always  is. 

"But  tell  me,  did  you  ever  see  a  queenlier 
woman  than  Bernice  Philips  ?  Now,  I  don't 
mean  a  prettier  woman  nor  a  lovelier  one  (for 
I  know  ef  one  lovelier  one,  ladies),  but  I 

mean  a  handsomer,  queenlier  one.     Tall  and 
60 


The  Thrasher 

straight  and  graceful  as  that  young  walnut 
flirting  there  with  that  stout  yellow  locust. 
Queenlier  than  the  feathery  elm  that  stands 
in  the  rich  meadow  bottom,  and  haughtier, 
aye,  Content — that's  the  word — and  prouder 
than  the  white  oak  that  looks  down  on  the 
rest  of  the  forest.  And  colder — it  is  true, 
Content — than  the  frost-painted  sides  of  the 
silvery  sycamore,  when  Winter  has  stripped 
her  of  her  leaves  and  left  her  to  match  in 
garishness  the  snow  beneath.  But  queenly 
— Content,  queenly — that's  the  name. 

"  '  Infatuated,'  did  you  say  ?  Well,  perhaps 
that's  what  1  am.  That's  what  I  want  you 
cows  to  help  me  decide.  Tell  me  which  you 
think  it  is — infatuation  or  love  ?  For  there's 
a  big  difference  in  the  two.  Ah  !  I  see  you 
understand.  One  is  passion,  the  other  is  prin- 
ciple. One  is  body,  the  other  is  soul.  One  is 
fire,  leaping  through  the  eyes  to  set  the  heart 
aglow  ;  the  other  is  sunshine,  flooding  the 
windows  of  the  soul  with  sweet  and  whole- 
some light.  Like  the  fire,  one  will  quickly 
burn  up  all  within  its  reach,  even  the  home  of 

sunshine,  the  home  of  love,  and  leave  only 
61 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

the  ashes  of  regret  behind.  Like  the  sunshine, 
the  other  will  come  day  after  day,  always 
fresh  and  sweet,  always  pure  and  strengthen- 
ing and  wholesome.  It  makes  a  great  differ- 
ence, Content,  which  one  we  marry  on. 

"  It  came  about  in  this  way,  Content.  I 
don't  mind  telling  you  cows,  because  I  know 
you  will  not  tell  anybody. 

"  She  is  Colonel  Philips's  daughter,  you 
know  ;  the  same  that  is  my  neighbor  and  has 
that  handsome  home  and  farm.  Don't  you 
remember  the  day  when  you  cows  acted  so 
badly  and  broke  over  into  his  pasture  where 
the  rich  orchard  grass  grew  with  the  clover  ? 
Not  that  1  am  throwing  up  past  manners  to 
you  all — I  don't  believe  any  of  us  should  do 
that,  it  tends  to  harden  us  so— but  1  just  wish 
to  fix  it  in  your  mind.  Because  I've  known 
some  people  to  think  that  farms  and  houses 
and  orchards  had  a  good  deal  to  do  in  deciding 
whether  the  thing  was  infatuation  or  love. 

"  Bernice, — of  course,  you  all  know  her, — 
ever  since  I  can  remember,  ever  since  I  could 
toss  her  on  her  pony  and  pace  her  up  the  pike, 

she  was  haughty  and  queenly  even  then. 
63 


The  Thrasher 

"I  never  tossed  her  but  once.  I  remember 
it  distinctly.  She  was  ten  and  I  was  twelve. 
Do  you  remember  the  Tom  Hal  pacing  pony 
her  father  gave  her  ?  That  evening  I  had 
burned  the  sedge-grass  on  the  hill  of  the  white 
locust  fields,  shooting  rabbits  as  they  ran  out. 
I  had  killed  two  and  was  trudging  home  im- 
mensely proud.  Her  saddle  had  slipped  at 
the  lane,  and  she  was  standing  on  the  ground 
holding  her  pony  and  looking  most  queenlily 
perplexed  as  I  came  by.  It  was  nearly  dark 
and  she  was  two  miles  from  home,  yet  she 
showed  no  signs  of  gladness  that  I  had  come 
just  in  time  to  help  her  out  of  her  trouble. 

"  '  Hello,  Bernice  !  you  are  in  a  pretty  fix. 
How  did  it  happen  ?'  and  I  went  to  work  to 
unbuckle  the  big  double  girth  and  adjust  the 
saddle  to  the  round  back  of  the  little  fat  pacer. 

4< '  O,  it's  not  so  bad,'  she  said,  a  little  less 
humbly  than  I  thought  she  might  under  the 
circumstances.  '  I  knew  somebody  would 
come  along  and  fix  it.' 

"  '  Well  it's  lucky  1  came  along  when  I  did, 
for  it's  nearly  dark  already.     Now  give  me 
your  foot  an'  I'll  toss  you  in  the  saddle.' 
63 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

"'You  are  very  kind  and  I  thank  you  so 
much.  But  I'll  get  into  the  saddle  myself, 
and  ' — haughtily — '  I  don't  give  my  foot  to 
gentlemen.' 

"  '  O,  ho  !  Miss  Haughty,  when  did  you  get 
so  grown  ?' 

"I  laughed  teasingly,  and  I  caught  her  by 
the  waist  as  she  was  climbing  in,  and  pulled 
her  provokingly  back. 

'"I'll  take  a  kiss  to  pay  me  for  all  I've 
done,'  I  laughed,  as  I  tried  to  kiss  her. 

"  She  turned  on  me  indignantly. 

"  '  No  you  won't ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  Ned 
Ballington,  if  ever  you  put  your  hands  on  me 
again,  I'll— I'll— ' 

'"Well  give  me  your  hand,  then,  Miss 
Philips,  and  if  you  don't  do  that,  then  just  get 
on  your  pacing  pony  any  way  you  can.  I 
wish  now  I'd  let  you  fix  your  saddle,  too.' 

"  She  laughed  gayly,  sprang  into  the  saddle, 
adjusted  the  stirrup  to  her  foot  and  looked 
down  at  me  with  a  triumphant  smile  in  her 
dark  blue  eyes. 

"  'Always  want  folks  runnin'  after  you  an' 
bowin'  down  to  you  like  you  was  a  queen,'  I 
64 


The  Thrasher 

went  on,  bitterly,  'an'  when  they  do  you  a 
favor  you  seem  to  think  it's  just  your  natural 
dues  an'  you  don't  thank  'em  a  bit.' 

"She  smiled  provokingly  and  tossed  her 
curls. 

"  '  The  meanes'  folks  in  the  world,'  I  went 
on,  'is  them  that  ain't  thankful  for  what  they 
get.' 

"  '  Now  all  this,  Mister  Ballington,'  she  said, 
with  an  ironical  emphasis  on  the  Mister,  '  all 
this  is  because  I  wouldn't  let  you  kiss  me.' 

"  1  flushed  hotly  under  the  truth  of  this. 

"  '  You  ain't  a  bit  better  than  Thesis,'  I  ex- 
claimed, 'and  not  half  so  good.' 

"  By  that  I  saw  that  I  had  stepped  on  dan- 
gerous ground.  I  had  touched  the  one  weak 
spot  in  her  character. 

"'Well,  do  me  the  kindness  to  go  and 
waste  Miss  Thesis's  time  discussing  it,'  she  ex- 
claimed, freezingly.  '  Mine  is  valuable,  and 
Sappho  and  I  are  going  home.' 

"She  started  off,  leaving  me  utterly  un- 
horsed and  miserable. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  queer  things  in  our  make- 
up, Content,  that  the  unattainable  has  only 
5  65 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

to  put  on  the  helmet  of  Diana  of  the  Ephesians 
to  make  us  fall  down  in  worship.  And  yet  if 
the  stars  really  fell  to  the  earth,  and  we  might 
gather  them  as  we  do  'daisies,  it  would  not 
be  long  ere  we'd  be  classing  them  with  fire- 
flies. 

"  When  she  rode  off  in  her  haughty  and 
queenly  way,  I  thought  she  was  never  more 
beautiful. 

"  '  Bernice  !'  I  called,  shamedly.  '  Please 
stop.' 

"  She  drew  up  her  pony  with  a  little  gesture 
of  impatient  non-compliance. 

"  '  Bernice,'  I  said  softly,  walking  up  to  the 
side  of  her  pony,  '  I  was  meaner  than  a  dog. 
Please  take  one  of  my  rabbits.  You  are  so 
pretty.' 

"  She  flushed  in  a  pleased  way  and  said, 
4O,  well,  since  it'll  please  you,  Ned,  just  tie 
the  thing  to  my  saddle.  But  I'm  not  particu- 
larly fond  of  rabbits.' 

"  In  a  few  minutes  she  had  cantered  off  in 
the  twilight,  while  I — I  had  laid  my  first 
tribute  on  the  altar  of  infatuation." 


66 


THESIS. 

A  SOUTHERN    woman— ay,  what   worth 
implied, 

What  loyal  lines  of  true  nobility ! 
Product  of  pride  and  sweet  humility. 
Grace  that  hath  flowered  and  long  defied 
The  red-rude  hands  when  other  graces  died. 
Modesty  born  of  higher  laws  and  free, 
Spirit  as  placid  as  the  unruffled  sea 
From  coarser  winds  its  destiny  denied. 

From  cultured  acres  of  ancestral  worth 
There  springest  now  the  lily  of  their  soil, 

The  blossom  of  the  land  that  gave  thee  birth, 
The  alabaster  box  of  precious  oil. 

Live,  that  the  beauty  of  your  bloom  may  grow, 

Till  all  the  world  a  sweeter  fragrance  know. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

«  N  TOW,  there  is  her  cousin,  Thesis,  Con- 
1  N  tent — the  Colonel's  niece — whose 
parents  died  when  she  was  an  infant.  Unlike 
his  brother,  her  father  had  no  farms  and  herds 
and  orchards,  and  when  he  died  Thesis  was 
taken  to  her  uncle's  home  to  live.  I  am  telling 
you  this  that  you  may  know  all  the  facts,  Con- 
tent, and  why  no  blue-grass  farm  will  come 
with  Thesis's  dower. 

"  You  have  seen  her  a  hundred  times,  Con- 
tent, with  her  sweet,  dimpled  face,  and  great, 
sad,  thoughtful  eyes,  and  her  quiet,  unselfish 
ways.  And  her  eyes — such  wonderful  eyes, 
Content. 

"  Thesis;  you  have  seen  her,  Content;  she 
who  shuns  where  Bernice  seeks ;  who  waits 
where  Bernice  walks  ;  who  gives  where  Ber- 
nice gets." 

69 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

Uoli — a-e-oli-noli-nol-a-e-oli-lee ! 

I  sprang  from  the  grass  in  joyful  excitement 
when  the  opening  notes  of  this  well-known 
flute-song  floated  like  clear  music-bubbles 
across  my  sea  of  air.  I  had  heard  it  too  often 
not  to  know  the  luscious,  liquid,  ripened 
melody  that  came  in  the  early  Spring  with  the 
penetrating  force  of  clarion-notes  from  a  silver 
bugle  at  the  lips  of  Fame. 

"The  wood-thrush,  cows!  Two  weeks 
ahead  of  time.  Hurrah  for  an  early  Spring 
and  a  sweet  Summer !" 

I  looked  cautiously  around  me  to  see  whence 
came  the  music,  for  1  knew  the  modest,  dainty 
and  aristocratic  ways  of  this  graceful,  retiring 
bird,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  play  the  groundling 
in  the  pit  to  the  classic  utterances  of  this 
sweet  singer. 

Of  all  the  thrush  family,  except  the  hermit 
thrush,  1  knew  this  fellow  was  the  shyest  and 
least  often  seen.  Unlike  his  cousins,  the 
robin,  thrasher  and  mocking-bird,  he  is  heard 
more  than  he  Is  seen.  And  unlike  the  thrasher, 
who  but  a  half  hour  ago  entertained  us  from 

the  loftiest  top  of  a  locust  branch,  I  knew  1 
70 


Thesis 

must  look  for  this  poet  of  the  woods  under 
the  lowest  limbs,  where  the  green  leaves 
close  over  him  in  the  thick  splendor  of  an 
emerald  sky,  making  a  solitude  of  sweetness 
for  this  rare  singer,  before  he  would  give  us 
his  heart-song. 

It  took  me  ten  minutes  to  locate  him,  so 
securely  had  he  selected  his  bower,  and  so 
nearly  the  color  of  his  brown  back  was  that 
of  his  retreat.  He  was  sitting  on  a  lower 
limb,  close  to  the  body  of  a  black-gum,  around 
and  above  which  a  wild  grapevine  had  twisted 
and  twined,  and  though  its  leaves  had  not 
yet  put  out,  it  made  a  bower  almost  impene- 
trable. 

There  was  not  the  least  effort  in  his  sing- 
ing. Unlike  the  thrasher's,  it  seemed  to  pour 
from  his  golden,  reedy  beak,  as  a  silver  stream 
leaps  from  the  bronzed  lip  of  a  statue  of  Pan, 
above  a  fountain.  And,  indeed,  the  entire 
bird  seemed  a  fountain  of  music.  His  white 
throat  and  breast,  dotted  with  heart-shaped 
spots,  was  the  silvery  fountain  of  the  pool, 
over  which  darker  bubbles  floated.  His  little 
bronzed  body  was  the  statue  above  it;  his 
7» 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

bright  eyes  gleamed  like  sunbeams  in  the 
pool,  and  from  his  yellow,  golden  beak  there 
poured  a  stream  of  music  with  the  distinctive, 
bell-like  chimes  of  a  pure,  cold  stream  tumb- 
ling into  a  deep  pool  of  resting  water.  Listen- 
ing, I  scarcely  knew  whether  to  call  it  a  chime 
of  silver  bells,  the  notes  of  a  rare  stringed  in- 
strument, or  the  tinkling  of  a  mountain  spring 
over  the  face  of  a  bluff  of  brown  Tennessee 
marble. 

He  ceased  as  suddenly  as  he  began.  Then, 
like  the  modest  creature  he  was,  he  slipped  off 
into  the  darker  forest  without  waiting  for  any 
applause. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  wanted  to  talk 
again.  After  such  music  one  wishes  to  com- 
mune with  one's  own  soul.  But  presently  I 
was  aroused  by  Content  ceasing  to  chew  her 
cud  and  looking  at  me  fixedly.  I  started  be- 
cause she  had  assumed  the  exact  attitude  of 
Miss  Cynthia  just  before  she  asks  me  a  ques- 
tion. Fearing  she  might,  1  went  on. 

"Oh,  yes,  as  I  was  saying,  Content,  there 
is  her  cousin,  Thesis.  It  was  the  occasion  of 
my  fifteenth  birthday,  and  my  mother  had 
72 


Thesis 

given  me  a  birthday  party.  I  was  just  at  that 
age  when,  like  a  newly-fledged  insect,  I  was 
quite  a  bit  larger  than  I  would  ever  be  again.  I 
had  got  mad  with  Bernice  for  some  of  her  slights 
and  haughtiness — peculiarly  exasperating  this 
time — and  so  had  asked  Thesis  to  go  with  me. 
She  was  ten  then,  and  such  a  sweet,  unselfish 
being  as  one  might  only  meet  in  paradise. 

"  How  delighted  she  was!  How  her  eyes 
shone,  and  how  gladly  she  consented  !  But 
the  next  day — I  remember  it  so  well — she 
walked  across  the  field  to  Lynwood,  and  when 
I  saw  her  she  was  wearing  a  little  sunbonnet, 
and  beckoning  to  me  with  berry-stained 
fingers  to  come  out  to  our  playground  under 
the  grapevine  arbor. 

"'Hello,  Thesis!  what  have  you  come  so 
early  for,  before  I  was  dressed  for  the  party  ? 
I  was  goin'  to  come  after  you,  in  the  after- 
noon, you  know.' 

"'Oh,  Ned,  don't — don't  tease  me  to-day 
when  I've  come  so  far  to  do  right.  I'm  in 
earnest,  Ned.' 

" '  Of  course  you  are — you  are  always  in 
earnest — the  earnestest  thing  I  ever  saw,' 
73 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

"  'But  very,  very  earnest  this  time,  Ned.' 

"Here  she  shook  her  head  in  that  funny  lit- 
tle way  she  had  when  she  was  very  positive 
about  anything. 

"  'Ned,  I'm—I'm— I'm  too  little  to  go— you 
must  go  with  Bernice  to  the  party.' 

"  '  Too  little  !  Stand  up  by  my  side,  Thesis 
Philips.  Just  to  my  shoulders.  You're  just 
right.  All  married  people,  that's  married 
right,  fit  just  about  that  way.  The  bride 
always  comes  up  to  the  groom's  shoulder.' 

"  '  Oh,  Ned,  how  can  you  talk  so  !  I — I — I 
b'leeve  I'll  go  home.  Oh,  Ned,  I  can't  go 
with  you.  I'm  in  earnest.' 

"  '  Thesis,  let  me  tell  you  something.  I'm 
in  earnest,  too.  Ned  Ballington  will  no  longer 
be  tampered  with.  His  manly  feelings  will  no 
longer  be  lacerated.' 

"  I  had  got  that  speech  out  of  my  first  novel 
— a  cheap  one  I'd  read  up  in  the  hay -loft  and 
hid  in  the  cracks  of  the  barn  when  not  read- 
ing. The  occasion  was  where  the  hero  swore 
he'd  die  before  he'd  further  submit  to  the 
slights  of  the  heartless  heroine. 

"  '  No,'  I  continued  pompously,  '  they  will 
74 


Thesis 

no  longer  be  lacerated.  He  ain't  built  that 
way.  He's  made  up  his  mind  to  quit  lovin' 
that  proud,  mean  cousin  of  yours,  an' — an* — 
Thesis,  I'm  goin'  to ' 

"  She  looked  tantalizingly  sweet  in  her  white 
apron,  her  sunbonnet  awry,  and  her  curls 
peeping  out  from  under  it.  She  looked  at  me 
so  innocently  and  yet  so  sadly  that  1  stopped, 
blushed  and  hung  my  head. 

"'Ned,  ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  not 
to  love  Bernice  ?'  and  her  big  eyes  brought 
me  to  scorn.  Then  she  stooped,  plucked  a 
daisy  and  began  to  pull  it,  petal  by  petal, 
apart.  She  was  shyly  looking  at  me  from  the 
corner  of  her  eyes,  and  1  saw  a  half-concealed 
laugh  on  her  lips  as  she  began  to  tell  her  for- 
tune in  the  flower.  '  He  loves  me  little, — he 
loves  me — he  loves  me  not,'  she  said. 

"  '  But  1  do  love  you,'  1  said,  '  1  am  goin' 
to  love  you  instead  of  Bernice,  Thesis, — daisy 
or  no  daisy.' 

"'Oh,  Ned,  you  mustn't — you  mustn't — 
you  mustn't  think  of  that.    Oh,  no — no — no  ! 
Ned,  how  can  you  ? '    And  she  shook  her  head 
again  in  that  funny,  solemn  way  she  had. 
75 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

"'But  I  am,— an'  I'm  goin'  to  marry  you 
jus'  as  soon  as  you  get  big  enough — see  if  I 
don't !  I'll  spite  that  mean  Bernice,  if  I  die 
for  it.' 

"She  put  her  berry-stained  fingers  over  my 
mouth. 

"'Ned!    Ned!    Hush!' 

"  'An'  you  shall  live  in  my  big  house  with 
me,  an*  it  will  be  yours  an'  mine,'  I  said. 

"  '  Ned  !     Ned  !     Hush— h-u-s-h  !' 

"  'An'  we'll  not  even  invite  Bernice  to  see 
us — jus'  let  her  die,  the  mean  old  maid  that 
she  is.  An'  nobody'U  live  here,  Thesis,  but 
jus'  you  an'  me — nobody  !' 

"She  shook  her  head  very  solemnly  and 
quietly. 

"  '  Oh,  yes,  Thesis,  an'  we'll  play  around  all 
day,  an'  love  nobody  but  jus'  each  other,  an' 
drink  cream  clabber  all  day  long,  if  we  want  to, 
an'  have  pancake  fritters  every  night;  Thesis, 
just  think  of  it, — every  night, — for  supper !' 

"She  still  continued  to  shake  her  head  and 
to  look  away. 

'"Oh,  Ned,  how  sweet  of  you, — how 
lovely !' 

76 


Thesis 

"'An'—an',  Thesis,  I'll  ride  you  on  the 
wheelbarrow  all  the  time  when  we  ain't  eatin' 
pancakes,  an'  when  we  ain't  doin*  that,  we'll 
hunt  for  guinea-nests  an'  jacky-worms.' 

"But  she  only  shook  her  head  the  more 
positively  and  sadly,  though  she  murmured, 
'  How  sweet,  how  lovely  !' 

"'I  tell  you,  Thesis,'  I  said,  getting  quite 
positive  myself,  'jus'  since  we've  been  talkin' 
I've  found  it  all  out.  I've  found  out  I  love 
you,  an'  I  don't  love  her,  an'  I  love  you 
harder'n — harder'n — well  harder'n  anything 
in  the  worl',  an'  I  love  you  right  now — 
Charley-on-the-spot,  red  leather,  bargain  done 
forever,  now  an'  forever.  Amen  !  Thesis,  be 
my  sweetheart  till  we  get  big  enough  to 
marry.' 

"  '  Oh,  Ned,  how  lovely  of  you  !  But — I — 
I — can't !  An'  I've  come  'way  over  here  to 
tell  you  1  can't.  An*  I  can't  even  go  with 
you  this  evenin'.' 

"  '  Look  here,  Thesis  Philips,  are  you  gettin' 

stuck  up,  too  ?    Is  the  whole  Philips  family 

goin'  back  on  Ned  Ballington  ?     Well,  Miss 

Thesis,  let  me  tell  you  right  now,  the  nex' 

77 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

time  Edward  G.  Ballington  offers  his  company 
to  one  of  the  Philips  family,  also  his  hand,  an' 
his  heart  an'  home,  an'  his  pancakes  an'  clab- 
ber an'  e-v-e-r-y-thing  he's  got,  you'll  be 
catchin'  jacky-worms  in  January  —  there 
now  !' 

"  And  I  turned  on  my  heels  indignantly. 

"  'Oh,  Ned,  you  don't  understan'.  Please 
don't.  Oh,  don't  get  mad  at  me  !'  and  she 
clung  to  my  coat-sleeve. 

"This  was  what  I  wanted.  I  struck  an 
offended,  stage  attitude,  such  as  I'd  read  about 
in  my  novel,  and  said,  freezingly: 

"  '  Edward  G.  Ballington,  Miss  Philips,  don't 
have  to  run  all  over  the  country  for  girls  to 
go  with  him  to  his  own  party.  A  gentleman, 
madam,  never  gives  his  word  but  once,  neither 
does  he  take  but  one  refusal.  Therefore,  be 
cautious  how  thou  speakest  the  word  that  may 
blight  thy  life  forever.' 

"  She  looked  at  me  with  positive  admiration 
in  her  eyes.  I  could  see  I  was  playing  a  win- 
ning hand,  and  I  rummaged  around  for  some 
other  scenes  from  my  novel. 

"  '  But  tell  me,  Miss  Philips — hist,  madam— 
73 


Thesis 

tell  me,  is  there  another  man  in  it  ?  Is  it  Joe 
Forde  ?  If  so,  just  show  him  to  me.  Let  me 
but  get  a  glimpse  of  his  craven  countenance,' 
and  I  felt  in  an  imaginary  hip-pocket  for  the 
weapon  a  Tennessee  gentleman  always  car- 
ries for  such  an  emergency. 

"  She  held  on  to  my  arm.  '  Oh,  Ned,  don't 
shoot  anybody — that'll  be  murder  !' 

"  'Well  I  won't,  Thesis,  if — if — if  you  say 
not.  But  let  not  the  craven  that  would  ruth- 
lessly destroy  my  happiness  cross  my  path  ! 
Let  him  keep  the  wide  ocean  between  us ! 
The  man  don't  live  that  can  steal  the  jewel  of 
Edward  G.  Ballington's  life  an'  go  unwhipped 
of  justice!' 

"  'Oh,  Ned,  how  beautiful, — how  beautiful 
you  talk !  Oh,  I  wish  I  could — but  I  can't. 
You  must  say  all  that  to  Bernice.' 

"'Miss  Philips'  —  freezingly — 'allow  Ed- 
ward G.  Ballington  to  bid  you  good  evenin', 
an'  to  politely  inform  you  that  the  stars  will 
turn  backward  ere  he  speak  these  words  to 
your  fair  cousin.  Allow  me  to  bid  you ' 

"  '  Oh,  Ned,  don't  go  that  way.     I  can't  go 
with  you.     It'll  be  selfish  and  wrong,  Ned.' 
79 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

"  « You  won't  go  with  me,  Miss  Philips  ?  An* 
when  did  you  get  so  grown,  pray  ?  Ain't  we 
been  raised  together,  an'  played  together  all 
our  lives  ?  Why  when  you  was  three  years  old 
an'  jus'  could  toddle,  you  was  running  around 
after  me  all  over  the  place.  Zounds  !  madam, 
I  couldn't  seek  a  cloistered  nook  to  engage  in 
silent  meditation  but  you'd  be  there,  climbing 
all  over  my  lap  and  cryin'  if  I  didn't  let  you 
pull  all  the  buttons  out  of  my  shirt-front.' 

"  '  Oh,  Ned,  don't — please  don't !  1  was  so 
little  then  !' 

"  'Nor  could  I  retire  to  the  restful  quietude 
of  my  chamber,  nor  follow  the  chase  in  the 
deep,  dark  woods,  nor  lead  my  warriors  to 
battle,  without  accountin'  to  you  first,  or  else 
have  your  screams  and  female  lamentations 
arouse  the  whole  neighborhood.' 

'"Oh,  Ned,  don't!' 

"  'Yes,  Madam  Growny,  an'  have  you  for- 
gotten the  day  you  was  three  years  old  an' 
they  brought  you  to  spend  the  day  with  me  ?' 

"  'Oh,  Ned,  please  don't  ;  I  was  so  little 
then,  and  I  didn't  know  no  better.     Oh,  Ned, 
please  don't  tell  that !' 
80 


Thesis 

"  '  An'  1  broke  myself  down  swingin*  you  all 
day,  an*  climbin*  the  barn-loft  to  get  you 
pigeon-eggs,  an*  rollin*  you  in  the  wheelbar- 
row all  day,  like  you  was  some  queen  and  I 
was  a — was — a — ah — a — houri,  yes,  a  houri, 
that  waits  on  a  queen.' 

"  4  Ah,  you  were  glad  enough  to  go  with  me 
then.  Well,  when  I'd  broke  myself  down 
trundlin'  you  aroun'  1  went  to  sleep  in  my 
trundle-bed,  while  they  was  washin'  the  smut 
off  your  face  you  got  by  tryin'  to  look  at  the 
sun  through  a  smoked  glass  an'  looking  through 
the  wrong  side  of  it.  An'  I  went  to  sleep  in 
the  trundle-bed,  as  1  was  sayin' ' 

"  'Oh,  Ned,  don't— don't,'  and  she  tried  to 
put  her  hand  over  my  mouth  again. 

44  'Yes,  1  will  remind  you  of  it,  Miss  Philips  ; 
you  were  not  ashamed  of  Edward  G.  Balling- 
ton  then.' 

44 '  Oh,  Ned,  how  can  you  ?' 

"  4  An'  when  I  woke  up,  who  was  in  that  lit- 
tle bed  with  me  but  the  dainty  Miss  Philips, 
that  is,  in  her  clean  bib,  an'  sound  asleep  with 
both  arms  around  my  neck,  an'  1  was  so 

mad  1 ' 

6  Si 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

"  '  Oh,  Ned,  yes,  you  did  ;  you  bit  me — you 
know  you  did.' 

"  '  Yes,  I  did  bite  you.  I  couldn't  get  rid  of 
you  any  other  way.' 

"  '  I  was  so  little  I  didn't  know  no  better, 
Ned.' 

"  '  You  know  better  now — know  so  much 
better  that  you  won't  even  go  with  me  to  my 
own  party,'  and  I  jerked  indignantly  away 
from  her.  And  then  I  saw  I  had  overdone  it 
— overacted  my  part.  When  I  looked  at  her 
again  she  was  sitting  on  the  grass,  sobbing 
bitterly. 

"  I  went  up  and  sat  down  by  her.  I  had 
never  felt  that  way  before.  Now  I  know  a 
man  is  never  so  young  and  never  so  old  that 
he  does  not  stand  subdued  and  awed  before  a 
woman's  tears. 

"  To  him  they  are  a  mystery — the  mystery 
of  a  birth.  An  unsolved  problem — -the  problem 
of  a  death.  For  they  come  with  the  sorrowing 
pain  of  a  birth  and  the  silent  wonder  of  death. 

"  Unfathomed  lakes  that  sleep  in  the  mysteri- 
ous mountains  of  the  mind  until  some  strange 

upheaval  of  the  soul  forces  them  to  burst  their 
82 


Thesis 

channels  and  roll  down  its  sides,  refreshing, 
moistening,  renewing  that  life  that  lives 
within. 

"And  they  are  always  new  to  hinS — he  never 
gets  used  to  them.  Beings  from  another  world, 
a  world  that  is  not  a  part  of  his  world  and  which 
he  cannot  understand.  Stars,  strange,  wan- 
dering stars,  that  have  fallen  from  their  sky. 
Outcast  angels,  upon  whose  robes  some  spot 
has  been  found,  and  so  forced  over  the  jasper 
walls  and  out  of  the  temple  of  light  in  their 
nakedness  and  penitence.  Forced  from  the 
realms  of  the  Invisible,  to  be  seen  and  scorned 
and  to  suffer  in  the  kingdom  of  the  Visible. 
Culprits  of  light,  crowned  yet  with  the  rain- 
bow of  their  hope,  and  in  the  garments  of  their 
immortality,  driven  by  an  angel  with  a  flam- 
ing sword  from  the  garden  of  their  Eden  to 
wander  as  outcasts  in  the  world.  Salt  tear 
waves  from  a  Spirit  sea,  breaking  on  the  desert 
beach,  where  only  Sorrow  sits  enthroned,  and 
bringing  on  their  crests  the  wrecked  pleasure 
crafts  of  every  joy,  the  shattered  galleons  of 
every  hope. 

"And  woe  is  that  man  who  is  not  touched  by 
83 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

them !  Let  him  know  that  he  is  no  longer  a 
man  and  has  no  right  to  wear  man's  mantle — 
that  '  he  should  be  sent  back  to  the  mint  of 
nature,  and  there  reissued  out  of  baser  metal 
as  a  counterfeit  on  humanity.' 

"They  should  touch  him  as  nothing  earthly 
may.  They  should  take  him  away  from  him- 
self and  the  world  of  himself,  and  in  a  moment 
he  should  stand  at  the  threshold  of  another 
world — an  invisible  world — where  the  spirit  is 
supreme  and  the  body  unknown.  That  world 
of  tenderness  and  light ;  of  seeing  things  alto- 
gether, plainly,  clearly,  sweetly;  where  the 
air  is  the  breath  of  God,  and  its  light  but  the 
light  of  His  eye,  the  stars  but  his  poems  writ 
in  the  sky,  and  its  water  but  His  own  tears, 
where  those  who  drink  shall  not  perish, 
neither  shall  they  thirst  any  more. 

"All — all  of  that  is  in  the  rounded  sphere  of 
one  tear  from  a  holy  woman's  eye. 

"  I  sat  down  beside  her.  Something  funny 
rose  in  my  throat  as  she  continued  to  sob. 

"'Thesis,  I'm  so  sorry.  If  you'll  hush, 
you  may  have  my  new  pony  and  I'll  send 
you  a  valentine. 

84 


Thesis 

"  'An*  the  new  white  kitten  I  found  yester- 
day in  the  hayloft,  Thesis.  Oh,  for  mercy 
sake,  h-u-s-h.  It  nearly  kills  us  men  to  see 
you  women  cry.' 

"The  sobbing  hushed,  indeed  —  it  was 
changed  to  a  flood  of  tears. 

"'Thesis!  Thesis!  Please  hush.  They'll 
think  I've  bit  you  again,  an'  jus'  think  of  the 
whippin'  I'll  get.  Think  of  me,  Thesis  ; — not 
for  heaven's  sake,  but  for  my  sake.  Hush  !' 

"  This  appeal  to  her  unselfishness  was  too 
much.  The  tears  ceased.  She  wiped  her  eyes 
.on  her  apron,  but  continued  to  sob. 

"'Ned,  you — you — don't  understand.  You 
must  go  with  Bernice.  Pro — prom — promise 
me,  Ned,  you'll  go.  That  you'll  love  her  an' 
not  me,  an' — an'  an'  I'll  quit  cryin'.  Oh— • 
hoo — oo ! ' 

"'Jimminy,  Thesis!  I'll  promise  you  any- 
thing if  you'll  only  hush.  It  makes  me  nerv- 
ous. I  feel  like  I've  swallowed  a  wiggling  min- 
now an'  that  somebody  has— has — touched  a 
funny-bone  in  my  gizzard.  Oh,  lordy,  do 
hush  !' 

"  She  wiped  her  eyes  on  her  apron.  I  drew 
85 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

a  great  sigh  of  relief.  *  Oh  my, — Thesis  !  I'd 
rather  dream  I  was  fallin*  off  a  housetop.  I'd 
rather  wake  up  o'  nights  a-seein'  things.  I'd 
rather  a  cat  would  suck  my  breath.  I'd — I'd 
— rather  anything  than  to  see  you  cry  !' 

"  This  brought  a  rippling,  little,  sunshiny 
smile  into  her  eyes. 

"Then  she  said  solemnly,  '  Ned,  it's  right. 
We  must  give  up  what  we  love  to  others.' 

"  '  Phew  !  Well,  that's  a  corker,  sure.  But 
what  put  that  into  your  head  ?' 

"  'Nothin',  Ned  ;  it  was  already  there.' 

"'Look  here,  Thesis,  that's  nonsense.  1 
love  you  best.  I've  just  found  it  out.  You 
are  so  lovable — how  can  I  help  it  ?  An'  1  won't 
give  you  up.' 

"She  shook  her  head.  'We  must  give  up 
our  things  to  others — give  up  to  others,  Ned. 
It  makes  them  happy.' 

"'Oh,  no,  Thesis,  not  when  it  comes  to 
sweethearts.  We  don't  give  up  our  sweet- 
hearts to  others.  That  don't  work  worth  a 
shuck.' 

"'But  it  will,  Ned,   yes,  it  will — even  in 

sweethearts — because — because  we  love 'em, 
86 


Thesis 

you  know,  an'  the  more  we  give  up  the  better 
it  makes  us ;  because — because  we  love  'em, 
you  know.' 

"  1  saw  two  tears  start  into  her  eyes  again. 
She  jumped  up  quickly. 

"  '  Good-by,  Ned,  good-by.  I  must  go.  Kiss 
me  good-by,  Ned,  and  don't  be  mad  at  me,  but 
1  can't — it's  right — I  can't,  you  know.' 

"  It  was  an  innocent,  sweet  little  face  that 
was  turned  up  to  me,  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

"'Kiss  me  good-by,  Ned.  Oh,  don't  be 
mad  at  me.  I'm  only  doing  right.' 

"Then  I  discovered  something  else  about 
man's  nature.  A  kiss  stolen  is  a  star ;  given, 
it  becomes  only  a  puny  meteor  of  iron  and  clay 
that  has  fallen  to  the  earth. 

"  I  turned  on  my  heel,  fool  that  1  was,  and 
— threw  a  rock  at  a  jay-bird  instead. 

"  When  1  looked  again  I  saw  a  little  white, 
sorrowful  and  subdued  sunbonnet  crawling 
under  the  pasture-bars  and  then  flying  across 
the  fields. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  that  evening 
1  went  with  Bernice  to  the  party." 
87 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

Thesis!  Thesis!  Thesis!  Thesis! 

Don't  you  love  her  ?   Don't  you  love  her?  Don't 

you  love  her  ? 

Angelic/  Angelic/  Angelic!  Angelic! 
S-we-e-t  one  !  S-w-e-e-t  one!  S-w-e-e-t  one! 
S-w-e-e-t  one! 

I  jumped  up  from  the  grass  with  a  laugh. 
"  Good  heavens,  cows  !  Did  you  ever  hear  a 
bird  speak  more  plainly  than  that  mocking- 
bird did?" 


A  BIRD  BIOGRAPHER. 

FOR  her  the  hills  with  blue  emboss'd, 
And     kerchief'd    fields    cross    country 

toss'd, 

And  baby  clouds  that  languid  lie 
Amid  the  drapery  of  the  sky  ; 
And  lanes  that  lead  where  lovers  meet 
To  lips  that  laugh — and,  laughing  greet 
Fair  lover  lips  with  kisses  sweet — 
The  girl  that  loves  a  horse. 

For  her  the  sunset's  trailing  tress 
Fair  laid  on  neck  of  loveliness  ; 
And  new-moon  pearl'd  amid  the  trees — 
Diana  gemmed  for  such  as  these. 
And  lisp  of  night-winds  prattling  low 
Where  roses  bloom  and  lilies  blow, 
Sweet  mem'ries  of  a  maid  I  know — 
The  girl  that  loves  a  horse. 

And  health  lies  in  her  dimpled  cheek 
So  plump  and  pink  it  seems  to  speak, 
While  joy  within  her  eyes  doth  make 

Reflected  rainbows  in  a  lake. 
89 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

And  sweet  contentment,  shepherdess 
Of  all  her  flocks  of  happiness, 
Shall  guide  her  and  forever  bless 
The  girl  that  loves  a  horse. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

FOR  a  while  I  forgot  everything  else,  listen- 
ing to  this  prince  of  singers.  It  is  so  easy 
to  set  the  music  of  a  mocking-bird  to  words. 
Only  let  him  sing,  and  it  is  a  barren  imagina- 
tion, indeed,  that  does  not  at  once  b/ossom  and 
ripen  into  a  harvest  of  words — sheaves  of  song 
and  sentiment,  granaries  of  golden  thought. 
For  his  music  touches  the  very  fountains  of 
life  and  starts  all  its  springs  anew.  And  that 
is  where  the  mocking-bird  is  a  great  poet,  for 
only  great  poets  can  do  that. 

To-day  he  seemed  verily  to  sing  a  biography 
of  Thesis.  And  what  a  biography  it  was! 
Lucky  Thesis  !  Who  among  earth's  greatest 
can  say  that  his  life  has  been  told  in  an  opera 
where  the  singer  was  the  soul  of  a  bird,  and 
the  music  the  flute-notes  of  heaven  ? 

"  Thesis !  —  Thesis  !  —  Thesis  !— don't  you 
91 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

love  her  ?  Don't  you  love  her  ?"  he  went  on, 
and,  having  caught  my  attention  with  his  start- 
ling prelude,  he  began  in  a  gentle  narrative  to 
tell  me  all  about  her.  And  he  sang  it  as  plainly 
as  if  he  had  preached  it  in  words — her  innocent 
beauty,  her  sweet  unselfishness,  her  great 
conceptions  of  right,  her  lofty  idea  of  sacrific- 
ing even  love  for  another's  happiness,  her 
nature  as  open  as  the  full,  red  rose  that  blooms 
and  knows  not  why,  her  soul  as  transparent 
as  the  tiny  drop  in  the  heart  of  it. 

As  he  sang  1  followed,  and  the  words  were 
woven  around  his  song  as  easily  as  star-sparks 
troop  after  the  sun,  and  as  naturally  as  the 
wreaths  of  the  milky-way  twine  their  great, 
golden  tendrils  around  the  pillars  of  the  sky. 

Ah  !  but  a  mocking-bird  is  an  artist.  And 
so  he  began  in  baby  prattling  to  paint  her,  the 
wee,  toddling  bundle  of  unselfishness  I  knew 
in  the  long  ago.  So  little  and  helpless — an 
orphan  on  the  world — and  yet  so  strong  al- 
ready in  character  and  soul.  1  followed  him 
as  he  carried  her  through  her  school-days, 
with  me  a  silent  worshipper,  to  her  college- 
days,  when  she  and  Bernice  were  away  at 
92 


A  Bird  Biographer 

college,  and  my  funny,  overdrawn,  romantic 
letters  would  come  to  her  now  and  then.  On, 
on,  down  to  the  present,  a  quiet  little  woman 
in  her  uncle's  house,  cheering  all,  helping  all, 
loving  all, — the  soul  of  truth  and  gentleness 
and  sweetness — until  it  seemed  to  me,  as  he 
painted  in  lines  of  melody  the  picture  of  her 
loveliness,  his  very  song  caught  a  climax  of 
splendor. 

"Thesis  !— Thesis !— Thesis  !— Thesis  1"  he 
thundered  in  a  grand  finale,  "don't  you  love 
her  ? — don't  you  love  her  ? — don't  you  love 


"  Go  to,  you  necromancer !"  I  jumped  up 
and  shouted  laughingly.  "Go  to,  you  con- 
juring idiot !  Haven't  1  loved  her  all  these 
years  ?  Didn't  I  sing  her  praises  before  you 
were  born  ?  You  are  a  fresh  one,  to  be  tell- 
ing me  whom  to  love." 

He  gave  me  a  quick,  startled  look,  as  if  he 
remembered  what  Shakespeare  had  said  about 
a  poet,  a  lunatic  and  a  lover,  and  the  next 
instant  he  had  placed  himself  on  the  safe  side 
of  the  pasture. 

It  was  nearly  sundown  when  I  started  for 
93 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

the  house.  The  cows  had  gone  an  hour  ago. 
1  had  seen  old  Wash  let  down  the  bars  for 
them.  I  had  reached  the  pike  and  climbed 
the  rail  fence.  For  a  moment  I  sat  there,  rest- 
ing. A  yellow-breasted  wheat-bird,  almost  a 
miniature  field  lark,  swung  on  a  tall  wheat- 
stalk  and  eyed  me  as  he  sang  his  monotonous 
chee — chee — che-e-e.  He  was  a  beautiful  little 
fellow,  and,  from  the  answering  echoes  further 
on  in  the  wheat-field,  I  knew  there  would  soon 
be  many  a  little  yellow  breast  hid  beneath  the 
sheltering  green  of  the  wheat  canopy. 

One  has  only  to  be  silent  and  quiet  to  get 
acquainted  with  birds.  They  like  not  noise 
and  the  turmoils  of  life.  Step  out  into  the  fields 
and  be  quiet.  Imitate  nature  in  stillness  and 
her  peaceful  ways,  and  see  how  quickly  they 
will  come  to  seek  an  introduction  to  you.  How 
soon  they  learn  to  know  you,  and  that  you 
mean  them  no  harm.  But  fret  in  the  least, 
stir  around  as  if  you  were  working  for  pay, 
and  see  how  they  will  vanish  before  you  like 
the  fairest  of  childhood  dreams  before  the 
daylight  of  after-life. 

And  so,  as  I  sat  upon  the  fence,  almost  at 
94 


A  Bird  Biographer 

my  feet  two  robust,  buxom  partridges  slipped 
from  under  the  rails,  and,  with  many  a  quaint 
flutter  and  happy,  rollicking  look,  started  as 
two  gay  school-girls  would  run  across  a  lawn, 
hand  in  hand,  for  the  next  field.  Half-way 
across  the  pike  they  saw  me,  and  dropped  to 
the  earth  as  quickly  as  two  brown  bullets  to 
the  breech  of  a  gun.  Had  I  moved,  had  I  raised 
a  finger,  had  1  frowned  even,  they  had  been 
gone  as  a  bullet  before  a  charge  of  powder. 
For  a  moment  they  scanned  with  quick,  cun- 
ning eyes  my  face,  my  posture,  the  very  cut, 
I  thought,  of  my  coat,  and  the  turn  of  my  col- 
lar. It  must  have  been  satisfactory,  for  soon 
one,  then  the  other,  slipped  away,  shyly  and 
slowly  at  first,  then  romped  it  down  the  road 
and  disappeared  in  the  neighboring  field. 
They  had  scarcely  gotten  out  of  sight  before 
a  splendid  Baltimore  oriole  flew  over  me  close 
down  and  darted  into  a  spot  of  ground  be- 
tween me  and  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  As 
it  lingered  a  moment  against  the  sky  it  looked 
not  unlike  a  miniature  rainbow  with  wings,  or 
a  ray  of  sunlight  shot  through  glass  of  old  gold 
and  orange. 

95 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

I  was  still  watching  the  bird  when  I  heard  a 
clatter  of  feet  coming  down  the  pike,  which, 
from  the  poetical  intonations  of  the  hoof-beats, 
I  had  learned  to  know  before,  and,  knowing 
it,  I  instinctively  experienced  the  same  pleas- 
ure as  one  who  knows  the  sunshine  has  burst 
from  a  cloud  behind  him,  and  the  next  instant 
will  stream  across  his  path.  It  was  Bernice, 
taking  her  evening  ride  ;  and,  fearless  rider 
that  she  was,  she  was  exercising  her  father's 
saddle  sire. 

It  was  a  perfect  picture — this  glorious  girl 
and  this  glorious  horse — pride  and  pedigree, 
grace  and  beauty. 

And  if  there  is  an  animal  under  heaven 
more  perfect  than  this  horse  as  he  reels  his 
fancy  gaits  down  a  sunshiny  pike,  under  the 
guiding  hand  of  a  rider  who  knows  how  to  ride, 
I  have  never  seen  it.  There  is  something 
about  the  proud  sire  of  the  graceful  single- 
footer  that  may  not  be  seen  in  any  other 
monarch  of  the  paddock.  To  one  who  sees 
beyond  the  perfected  mechanism  of  flesh  and 
bone,  who  would  read  a  horse's  character  from 

his  form  and  movements  as  he  would  read 
96 


A  Bird  Biographer 

human  characteristics  from  voice  and  expres- 
sion— in  other  words,  to  one  who  really  knows 
the  difference  between  horse  and  horses — the 
superb,  graceful,  intelligent,  almost  human, 
saddle-horse  is  totally  different  from  them  all. 
The  moment  I  see  him  1  feel  that  there  is  an 
indescribable  something  about  him,  from  the 
turn  of  his  neat  foot  and  graceful  leg  to  bony 
head  and  finely-moulded  muscle,  that  tells  me 
1  am  looking  neither  at  the  sire  of  runners  nor 
of  trotters,  nor  of  pacers.  And  as  for  such 
a  creature  siring  a  draught  horse,  I'd  sooner 
expect  to  see  Hyperion  sire  a  Satyr. 

And  what  is  more  beautiful  than  a  beautiful 
woman  on  a  superb  horse  ?  And  who  rides 
with  more  grace  than  the  women  of  Kentucky 
and  Tennessee,  in  these  homes  of  the  saddle- 
horse  ? 

If  I  were  the  parent  of  a  homely  girl,  I'd 
start  her  to  ridin^  in  her  infancy.  If  that 
doesn't  save  her,  she  is  past-grand  mistress  of 
homeliness. 

Listen  !  The  intonation  deepens  as  it  ap- 
proaches, and  the  regular  measure  of  the  steel- 
forged  cymbals  on  the  smooth  pike  carried  me 
7  97 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

back  to  a  school-room,  where  I  first  heard  the 
old  professor  scan,  with  low,  regular  cadence, 
my  first  line  of  Virgil.  Like  a  sunbeam  she 
bursts  by,  gracefully  throwing  me  a  smile  and 
a  tip  from  her  riding-whip.  High  up  on  the 
horse's  withers  she  sat,  quiet,  easy  and  natu- 
ral, and  not  a  muscle  moves,  save  the  slightly 
undulating  sway  of  a  faultless  bust,  in  a  blue 
tailor-made  riding-habit,  as  it  imperceptibly 
maintains  its  centre  of  gravity  under  the  rap- 
idly moving  horse.  The  animal's  mane  flut- 
ters in  front  and  ripples  like  a  bright  silken 
banner  in  the  wind,  and  so  high  is  the  crest  of 
the  flag-staff  and  so  lofty  the  arch  of  the  neck 
that  bears  it,  that  in  its  backward  flutters  it 
dallies  fondly  with  the  flushed  cheeks  of  the 
rider  as  if  to  screen  them  from  rougher  winds. 
A  fore-top  that  a  Circassian  maid  might  envy 
is  divided  over  a  pair  of  mirthful,  luminous  and 
almost  human  eyes,  and  coquettes  through  a 
silken  head-stall  with  a  pair  of  sensitive  ears 
in  delightful  and  wavy  negligee.  Away  they 
go — rider  and  ridden — yet  do  they  appear  as 
one. 

The  motion  of  the  feet  of  all  other  horses  is 
98 


A  Bird  Biographer 

easily  described  when  we  say  the  runner  runs, 
the  trotter  trots,  and  the  pacer  paces.  These 
are  the  alphabets  of  gaits,  compared  to  which 
the  movements  of  the  saddle-horse  are  the 
Odes  of  Anacreon.  His  forefeet,  almost  too 
proud  to  touch  the  sordid  earth,  advance  with 
the  disdain,  the  freedom,  the  assurance  and 
haughtiness  of  a  splendid  young  brigade  in  a 
double-quick  charge  at  a  fort  full  of  cowards, 
while  the  quick  patter  of  their  hind  com- 
panions follows  with  a  less  erratic  stride  in 
military  time,  and  while  not  so  full  of  youth- 
ful hilarity  and  earth-spurning  impatience, 
appear  not  unlike  the.  sedate  movements  of  a 
veteran  reserve. 

But  while  you  admire,  the  vision  is  gone. 
Adown  the  pike  their  heads  are  on  a  line,  and 
a  little  further  on,  by  a  slight  twist  of  a  firm 
hand,  the  graceful  machinery  is  seen  suddenly 
to  wheel  with  military  precision  for  a  sharp 
bend  in  the  road,  and  for  an  instant  you  see  a 
statue  against  the  sky — a  statue  of  Athene 
riding  Pegasus. 

At  the  house  I  came  barely  in  time  to  miss 
Thesis.  She  had  dropped  in  for  a  chat  with 
99 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

Miss  Cynthia.  Now  she  had  slipped  away 
across  the  same  meadow,  and  under  the  same 
bars  she  had  gone  through  long  ago.  I  had 
tried  to  cut  across  the  field  to  intercept  her, 
but  she  was  too  quick  for  me.  That  was 
twice  I  had  tried  to  see  her  since  she  had  come 
home  from  school,  and  failed.  I  had  called  on 
them,  but  only  to  see  Bernice  both  times.  I 
watched  her  as  she  went  across  the  field. 
Twice  I  thought  I  would  call  to  her  to  come 
back,  but  in  the  little  demure  way  she  walked, 
in  the  sweet  unselfish  poise,  the  unconscious 
grace  of  rectitude  and  right,  I  could  only  look 
and  be  silent.  It  was  sunset,  and  the  glint  of 
it  got  into  her  hair.  And  then,  as  she  slipped 
through  the  bars,  there  came  to  me  the  recol- 
lection of  other  years — the  sunset  of  a  memory. 
She  paused  to  put  up  the  bars,  and  then,  for 
the  first  time,  she  saw  me.  I  took  off  my  hat 
in  a  mock  heroic  way.  She  threw  me  a  saucy 
little  kiss  and  ran  into  the  house. 


100 


T 


THE  JEWEL  THAT  LIVES. 

IS  rings  for  the  ears  of  the  ladies 

As  it  was  in  the  days  of  old, 
But  give  me  the  ring  in  the  soul  to  sing 

A  pedigree  of  gold. 
For  there's  more  in  blood  than  in  money, 

And  there's  more  in  brains  than  in  gold, 
And  jewels  are  fair  in  a  maiden's  hair, 

But  the  jewel  that  lives  is  the  soul. 

Then  deck  the  body  in  beauty, 

With  damask  and  lace  of  old, 
But  give  me  the  grace  that  says  on  its  face 

The  pedigree  is  gold. 
For  there's  more  in  sire  than  in  satin, 

And  there's  more  in  dam  than  in  gold. 
And  jewels  will  do  for  a  year  or  two, 

But  the  jewel  that  lives  is  the  soul. 

Would  you  strut  in  a  cheap  endeavor, 

In  trappings  of  brass  and  bold  ? 
toi 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

You'll  quit  in  the  race  when  they  set  the 

pace 

If  your  pedigree  is  not  gold. 
For  there's  more  in  grit  than  in  grooming, 

And  there's  more  in  gait  than  in  gold, 
And  whatever  you  do  you  may  hold  this 

true  : 
The  jewel  that  lives  is  the  soul  I 


\02 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

OLD  Wash  and  I  have  a  way  of  sitting  out 
on  the  veranda,  moonlight  nights,  and 
talking  horse  while  we  smoke.  This  talking 
horse  habit  is  dreadful — if  it  once  gets  a  hold 
on  a  man  there  is  no  cure  for  it.  I  am  con- 
vinced it  is  born  in  some  men  and  never  can 
be  got  out  of  them.  It  is  harmless,  though, 
and  gives  its  victims  no  end  of  pleasure.  It  is 
more  soothing  than  pipes,  more  comrade-mak- 
ing than  war  and  the  tented  field,  and  it  draws 
men  into  closer  bonds  than  mystic  societies 
and  the  midnight  riding  of  imaginary  goats. 
Old  Wash  and  I  both  have  a  good  inheritance 
of  it. 

Miss  Cynthia  dislikes  horses — she  says  they 
make  her  nervous  ;  and  she  accounts  for  it  on  a 
rule  of  heredity  she  has.  Miss  Cynthia  dotes 
very  strongly  on  heredity.  She  read  it  to  me 
once  out  of  a  book  on  that  subject,  and  it  was 

something  like  this  :  "  A  nervous  shock  expert- 
103 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

enced  by  an  ancestor  will  be  transmitted,  more 
or  less,  to  the  descendants."  "  That's  a  true 
rule,  Miss  Cynthia,"  1  said,  "and  I  suppose  it 
explains  why  all  women  are  afraid  of  mice." 

The  nervous  shock  Miss  Cynthia  experi- 
enced was  quite  severe.  I  thought  anybody, 
even  a  woman,  could  drive  old  Tom — the 
surrey  horse — so  1  let  Miss  Cynthia  drive  him 
to  Ashwood  one  afternoon.  In  two  hours  she 
was  back  again,  excited,  hysterical,  and  call- 
ing for  her  smelling-salts. 

f  The  brute  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Why,  do 
you  know  —he  drove  along  beautifully  for  five 
miles.  He  had  but  one  mile  further  to  go,  and 
I  was  just  congratulating  myself  that  he  would 
go  the  whole  distance,  when  all  at  once  he 
decided  he  had  gone  far  enough,  and  despite 
my  cries  and  beseechings — my  frantic,  frantic 
expostulations  even — he  deliberately  turned 
the  phaeton  around  and  brought  me  back 
home  !  Oh,  1  shall  never  drive  again  !  I  know 
I  have  experienced  a  shock  that  will  bring  me 
under  that  rule — I  mean — oh — oh  !" 

1  never  before  saw  Miss  Cynthia  so  con- 
fused and  excited.  I  laughed  at  her  then,  but 
104 


The  Jewel  that  Lives 

my  triumph  was  short  lived.  That  very  after- 
noon I  took  my  drive  as  was  my  wont.  It 
was  eight  o'clock  before  I  got  back.  I  came 
very  near  not  getting  back  at  all.  Miss 
Cynthia  had  recovered  from  her  fright  and 
was  busy  on  her  bust  of  Andrew  Jackson. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  she  said,  as  I  threw 
myself  down  in  a  chair  and  heaved  a  deep 
sigh. 

"  I  went  driving  this  afternoon,"  I  said. 

Miss  Cynthia  put  two  little  interrogatory 
looking  stitches  in  to  make  the  corners  of 
Andrew  Jackson's  mouth.  I  anticipated  her 
and  went  on  : 

"Talk  about  smelling-salts — but  if  ever  a 
man  needed  them,  I  do  now.  Talk  about 
women  drivers,  Miss  Cynthia — "  here  I  choked 
up  with  emotion. 

"Let  me — "  said  Miss  Cynthia,  hastily 
arising. 

"  No,  no  ;  let  me,  this  time,  Miss  Cynthia — 
let  me  relieve  my  overburdened  feelings  on  this 
painful  subject  before  I  die  or  burst  with  in- 
dignation." 

Miss  Cynthia  sat  down  again. 
105 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

It  was  some  time  before  1  could  proceed,  so 
great  was  my  agitation.  Miss  Cynthia's 
curiosity  was  greatly  aroused, — she  promised 
she  would  not  interrupt  me  until  I  finished. 
This  gave  me  the  chance  I  wanted.  "  If  only 
you  will  not,  Miss  Cynthia,"  I  said,  "  you  will 
be  as  good  a  listener  as  Content."  Then  I 
launched  recklessly  forth  : 

"  Woman — God  bless  her,  Miss  Cynthia — 
what  would  the  world  be  without  her  ?  And 
yet  I  had  rather  meet  an  avalanche  of  mill- 
stones, or  even  a  traction  engine,  any  day, 
than  one  of  these  dear  creatures  when  she  is 
doing  her  own  driving.  And  if  there  be  two 
of  her  the  risk  is  just  doubled." 

Miss  Cynthia  did  not  look  up. 

"I  am  willing  to  go  on  record  by  saying 
that  no  man  can  truthfully  say  he  ever  knew  a 
woman  driver  to  give  an  inch  of  the  road  when 
she  could  take  it  all.  Or  turn  to  the  right 
when  she  could  turn  to  the  left  and  tangle  up 
things.  I  am  even  willing  to  go  on  record  by 
asserting  that  no  man  ever  saw  one  drive  who 
did  not  drive  squarely  down  the  middle  of  the 

road,   regardless  of   consequences,  with  the 
106 


The  Jewel  that  Lives 

full  assurance  of  a  pre-empted  right  to  the 
whole  thing  and  several  acres  on  both  sides  of 
it.  And  if  there  be  two  of  her,  as  I  said  before, 
Miss  Cynthia,  and  they  be  talking  straight 
into  each  other's  mouths  at  the  same  time — as 
is  their  custom,  when  driving, — telling  each 
other  all  about  the  naughtiness  of  their  neigh- 
bor's sister's  husband's  wife,  oblivious  of 
everything  else  around  them — even  of  their 
horse — but  every  now  and  then  flopping  him 
up  and  down  the  back,  with  a  kind  of  a  double- 
shuffling  jerk  of  both  arms  up  and  down— for  no 
man  ever  knew  a  woman  to  use  a  whip  if  she 
could  only  flop  the  lines,  Miss  Cynthia, — it 
is  then  that  these  sweet  and  blessed  creatures 
whom  God  created  for  nobler  purposes,  before 
they  took  to  doing  their  own  driving,  become 
the  most  dangerous  infernal  machines  a  mortal 
man  ever  tried  to  pass  on  a  public  highway." 

Miss  Cynthia  kept  on  embroidering. 

"  Before  you  can  turn  out  into  a  gutter  or 
ditch  and  give  them  the  earth,  they  are  into 
you  !  Before  you  can  pass  them,  back  out, 
pull  out,  turn  out,  fall  out,  or  roll  out,  they 

have  got  you  !     There  is  a  crash,  a  jar,  two 
107 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

female  shrieks,  and  then  a  chorus  of  'Sir, 
how  could  you  be  so  stupid  ? '  accompanied  by 
a  look  that  would  freeze  a  goat,  and  many  little 
side  antics  and  gesticulations  that  remind  one 
of  the  excitement  in  a  group  of  female  puddle 
ducks  when  the  red  calf  has  stepped  on  the 
tail  of  one  of  them.  You  apologize,  of  course, 
until  you  feel  as  mean  as  a  wet  dog  that  the 
band-wagon  has  run  over,  and  while  you  get 
out  to  patch  up  your  splintered  wagon,  and 
soothe  the  feelings  of  your  sensitive  little 
mare,  this  precious  pair  of  female  drivers  con- 
tinue straight  on  down  the  middle  of  the  pike, 
hunting  for  another  victim,  in  the  innocent 
sweetness  of  conscious  rectitude  and  sense  of 
duty  nobly  done,  and  with  the  air  that  nothing 
particular  has  happened  except  that  a  brute 
has  run  into  two  ladies  who  had  given  him  all 
the  road  !" 

Miss  Cynthia  winced,  made  two  misstitches, 
but  worked  on. 

"  Injure  their  vehicle  ?  Not  on  your  life  ! 
No  living  man  can  show  me,  Miss  Cynthia, 
where  one  of  them  was  ever  injured.  And 

the  dead  " — 1  said  bitterly — "  whom  they  have 
108 


The  Jewel  that  Lives 

run  over  and  killed  are  not  here  to  speak  for 
themselves.  Frighten  their  horse  ?  Not  at 
all.  That  old  leather-lunged,  nerveless, 
senseless,  spiritless  thing  which  the  average 
woman  is  content  to  drive  hasn't  got  enough 
good  blood  in  it  to  be  frightened  if  it  met  a 
skinned  elephant  hauling  dead  alligators  to  a 
bone-yard  !" 

I  overdid  it  here.  Miss  Cynthia  flushed  ex- 
ultingly  and  said, 

"  That's  true,  and  it's  because  you  men 
always  give  us  the  no-'countest  thing  on  the 
place  to  drive — Tom,  for  instance." 

I  winced  under  this,  but  reminded  Miss  Cyn- 
thia that  she  had  broken  her  promise.  Then 
I  said  apologetically  : 

"God  knows  I  love  woman,  Miss  Cynthia 
— in  the  abstract,  concrete,  possessive  case, 
ablative  absolute, — red-headed  even, — and  in 
any  of  her  voices,  moods,  tenses,  numbers  and 
persons,  active  and  passive. 

"But  as  much  as  1  love  her,  just  because 
she  is  a  woman,  Miss  Cynthia,  and  all  that,  as 
heaven  is  my  witness,  I  had  rather  take  the 

chances  of  charging  with  the  Six  Hundred  the 
109 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

guns  of  Balaklava  and  coming  out  alive,  than 
to  pass  one  of  these  Syren-looking  imbeciles — 
(Heaven  forgive  me,  Miss  Cynthia  !) — in  an 
eighty  foot  public  highway,  when  she  is  doing 
her  own  driving  and  talking  about  her  neigh- 
bor's wife." 

Miss  Cynthia  continued  to  sew  on. 

"She  runs  into  you  so  innocently  and  yet 
so  fatally.  She  smashes  you  so  naively,  and 
wrecks  you  so  charmingly  and  unselfishly, 
that  a  poor  man  cannot  do  anything  but  smile, 
beg  her  pardon,  swear  it  was  all  his  own  fault, 
that  he  alone  was  to  blame,  and  tell  her  just 
to  drive  on  over  him  whenever  she  gets  ready 
— God  bless  her !  And  the  dear  thing  takes 
you  at  your  word,  Miss  Cynthia, — literally 
and  truthfully — and  after  giving  you  a  look 
that  would  scorch  a  sandrock,  she  will  not  for- 
get to  go  home,  and  publish  it  to  the  four 
winds  of  heaven — that  is  to  say,  by  telling  all 
her  female  friends,  which  is  the  same  thing — 
that  she  met  you  coming  down  the  road  the 
other  day,  and  that  you  were  so  drunk  you 
did  not  know  which  way  you  were  going,  and 

after  she  had  tried  every  way  to  drive  around 
no 


The  Jewel  that  Lives 

and  avoid  you,  you  deliberately  pulled  across 
and  wrecked  her  beautiful,  beautiful  phaeton. 
The  brute  !" 

Miss  Cynthia  did  not  even  look  up. 

"  In  my  callow  days  I  was  told  that  the 
hand  that  rocks  the  cradle  rules  the  world, 
Miss  Cynthia.  I  now  believe  it — not  because 
it  rocks  the  cradle,  but  because  it  sometimes 
goes  driving  on  its  own  hook.  And  right  now, 
in  case  of  a  war  with  a  foreign  foe,  as  the 
most  effectual  annihilator  the  ingenuity  of 
modern  science  can  originate,  I  propose  a 
brigade  of  lady  drivers  who  shall  be  sent  to 
drive  down  on  the  enemy  with  positive  or- 
ders to  turn  to  the  right  and  thereby  evade 
him — to  frighten  but  not  to  run  over  him. 
The  enemy  will  never  know  what  happened 
to  him." 

Miss  Cynthia  was  very  still. 

"  You  went  driving  this  morning,  Miss  Cyn- 
thia ;  1  this  afternoon.  If  there  is  any  thing, 
not  human,  I  am  fonder  of  than  any  thing 
else,  it  is  my  little  mare  and  my  road-wagon. 
But  pride  cometh  before  a  fall,  and  this  is  the 

story  of  my  fall. 

in 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

"  I  drove  towards  the  hills  to  see  the  sun- 
set, and  a  beautiful  one  it  was,  Miss  Cynthia. 
I  was  busily  engaged  drinking  in  the  scene 
when  two  of  these  female  drivers  hove  in  sight. 
It  was  a  narrow  pike,  and  I  knew  what  was 
coming,  so  I  tried  to  drive  out  into  a  forty- 
acre  wheat-field  to  give  them  all  the  room 
necessary  to  pass.  For  I  saw  by  the  way 
they  were  talking  and  the  zigzag  way  they 
were  coming  that  it  would  take  three  pikes 
running  parallel  to  hold  them.  But  there  was 
a  big  ditch  between  me  and  the  wheat-field, 
and  I  could  not  get  over.  So  I  drove  out  to 
the  right,  as  close  to  the  ditch  as  I  could  get, 
folded  my  hands,  said  my  prayers,  and  waited 
as  calmly  as  I  could  for  the  shock.  And  this 
is  the  way  they  came  :  The  old  horse  had  his 
head  down,  and,  fast  asleep,  was  shuffling 
along,  first  on  one  side  of  the  road  and  then  on 
the  other.  He  was  trotting  in  front,  pacing 
in  the  middle,  and  seemed  to  be  galloping  on 
stilts  behind,  while  his  tail,  which  had  been 
worn  off  by  constant  beating  of  the  double- 
tree, was  banging  around  like  the  air-paddles 
of  a  flutter-mill.  I  thought,  at  first,  that  per- 

112 


The  Jewel  that  Lives 

haps  he  was  trying  to  switch  off  a  horsefly  that 
had  alighted  in  the  very  center  of  his  spinal 
column  just  out  of  range  of  his  tail ;  but  I  soon 
saw  he  was  doing  all  this  hopping  behind  be- 
cause one  of  the  drivers  was  prodding  him 
with  a  broken  whip-staff,  while  the  other,  with 
every  revolution  of  the  wheels,  was  flopping 
him  up  and  down  the  back  with  the  lines,  and 
both  of  them  talking  at  the  same  time. 

"  When  the  crash  came  they  were  rounded 
up  with  a  jerk,  and  I  heard  one  of  the  spokes 
of  my  wagon  tell  its  broken  tale.  They 
shrieked  in  unison,  and  then,  having  found  out 
where  they  were  at,  they  proceeded  to  tell 
me  what  they  thought  of  me.  And  there  is 
where  I  made  a  mistake,  Miss  Cynthia.  In- 
stead of  telling  them  the  truth,  I  ought  to  have 
lied  like  a  lover,  told  them  it  was  all  my  fault, 
that  I  alone  was  to  blame  and  begged  their 
pardon.  Instead,  I  tried  to  explain  to  them 
that  I  was  not  to  blame  in  the  .matter. 

"  '  How  in  the  world  can  you  say  that,  sir  ?' 
they  both  exclaimed,  freezingly,  at  the  same 
time. 

"  '  Ladies,'  I  said,  as  politely  as  I  could,  *  I 
8  113 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

was  standing  here,  perfectly  still,  almost  in 
this  ditch,  praying  that  you  would  go  by  and 
leave  me  unmolested.  At  the  last  moment  you 
crossed  the  pike  and  smashed  into  me.  Ob- 
serve, if  you  please,  the  positions  of  our 
vehicles.' 

"  '  Oh — oh — oh  !'  came  in  a  protesting  cho- 
rus. 'Did  you  ever  in  all  your  life?'  And 
they  looked  at  one  another  with  the  air  of  one 
who  says  :  '  Well,  I  have  heard  of  liars  before  !' 

"  Then  a  happy  idea  struck  one  of  them 
and  she  said  :  '  Isn't  it  the  law  of  the  road, 
sir,  to  turn  to  the  right  ?' 

"  '  Certainly  it  is,  madam/  I  said  gleefully, 
thinking  I  had  her  now. 

"'Just  listen  to  him  admitting  it,  Susie/ 
she  said  triumphantly,  '  and  there  he  sits  over 
on  our  left !' 

"  And  with  a  mixture  of  pity  and  triumphant 
sorrow  they  punched  up  their  old  horse  and 
shuffled  off,  looking  disdainfully  back  at  me 
every  now  and  then  with  the  curiosity  of  one 
who  just  wanted  to  see  when  I  would  continue 
my  drunken  drive  and  break  my  neck  in  the 
ditch." 

114 


The  Jewel  that  Lives 

I  waited,  but  Miss  Cynthia  said  never  a 
word. 

"  The  poetry  of  the  sunset  was  now  gone 
from  me,  and  I  started  for  home  after  getting 
out  and  rubbing  a  little  axle  oil  on  the  skinned 
place  they  had  left  in  my  mare's  forearm,  and 
looking  at  my  splintered  wheel. 

"  But  I  had  not  gone  far  before  I  met  another 
one  of  those  lovely  idiot  drivers.  This  one  was 
beautiful,  Miss  Cynthia,  and  I  didn't  care 
much  whether  she  ran  into  me  or  not.  I  would 
willingly  have  parted  with  a  wheel  to  have 
had  her  pitched  into  my  arms.  She  was  pink 
and  white,  with  the  prettiest  eyes  in  the  world, 
and  a  smile  that  was  heaven  itself.  This 
sweet  creature  had  tied  up  her  lines  on  the 
dash-board  and  was  busy  reading  a  love-letter 
while  her  horse  attended  to  all  the  road  and 
the  rest  of  the  thing.  I  thought  I  could  pass 
her,  but  I  was  mistaken.  Her  horse  wobbled 
across  the  pike  just  at  the  place  he  knew 
meant  destruction  to  me,  and  another  spoke 
was  gone. 

"  'Why  Mr.  Ballington,'  she  exclaimed  half 
angrily — for  I  knew  her — '  how  in  the  world 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

can  any  one  who  professes,  as  you  do,  to 
know  how  to  drive,  be  so  reckless  and  in- 
competent !  Just  see,  you  have  ruined  my 
phaeton  !' 

"I  looked  at  her  vehicle  —  it  was  not 
scratched,  but  another  spoke  was  broken  in 
mine,  and  the  little  mare  carried  a  bruised 
place  on  her  hock.  I  profited  by  my  ex- 
perience before,  and  so  I  tried  other  tactics 
here. 

" '  My  dear  Miss  Smith,'  I  said,  '  I  hope  you 
will  forgive  me.  I  deserve  all  your  censure,  I 
know.  But  the  truth  is,  you  happened  to 
look  up  just  as  1  was  passing,  and  the  light  of 
your  glorious  eyes  blinded  me  so  I  could  not 
see  which  way  1  was  driving.' 

"I  am  willing  to  be  run  into  again,  Miss 
Cynthia,  to  get  the  self-satisfied  look  and 
glorious  smile  she  gave  me.  1  was  instantly 
forgiven.  Nay,  more,  for  before  to-morrow 
she  will  be  telling  every  friend  she  has  that  I 
am  not  only  the  best  driver  in  Tennessee,  but 
the  most  truthful  and  honest  gentleman  she 
has  ever  seen  ! 

"  But  I  don't  try  to  pass  them  any  more, 
116 


The  Jewel  That  Lives 

Miss  Cynthia.  When  I  see  them  coming,  I 
stop.  And,  since  the  law  does  not  require 
them  to  carry  a  red  flag  in  the  horse's  head- 
stall, as  it  ought  to,  I  shaJl  carry  one  myself 
and  make  a  boy  run  up  the  pike  and  flag 
them  until  I  can  get  by." 

I  ceased  and  waited  to  see  what  Miss  Cyn- 
thia would  say  to  all  of  it.  She  did  not  move. 
To  my  astonishment  she  had  been  asleep  for 
the  last  half  hour.  I  waked  her  up  and  re- 
marked that  it  was  probably  time  for  her  to 
retire.  She  rubbed  her  eyes  and  replied, 

"Ah,  yes.  But  you  were  telling  about 
running  into  two  ladies,  and  I  wanted  to  ask 
you,— did  you  break  their  buggy  very  badly  ?" 


117 


THE  BATTLE  IN  HER  EYES. 

DAWN  dust,  shaken  from  the  wings  of  day, 
Has  fallen  in  the  deep  lake  of  your  eyes, 
And  starry  pollen  from  the  milky  way 

Down  driven  from  the  bowers  of  the  skies; 
And  lover  moonbeams  o'er  their  surface  play 
Where  humor  bubbles  float  or  upward  rise. 

O  lakes  of  love,  divinest,  azure-hued — 
Mirrors  of  truth — hand-glass  of  hope  and 

light- 
May  Time  ne'er  see  them  sad  or  tear-bedewed 

Uplooking  in  the  silent  eyes  of  night, 
Nor  Sorrow  drive  her  sombre  sail — and  rude — 
Dark  shadowing  that  which   now  is  only 
bright. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

I  CANNOT  understand  Thesis — why  she 
will  not  see  me  in  the  old  way.  It  is  now 
mid-June,  and  I  have  not  yet  seen  her  alone. 
Even  Miss  Cynthia  has  noticed  it,  and  on  sev- 
eral occasions  has  remarked  that  she  wanted 
to  ask  me  a  question. 

Old  Wash  is  very  fond  of  Thesis,  and  when 
she  was  a  tiny  thing  he  nicknamed  her  "  Little 
Glory."  He  has  never  called  her  anything 
else  since.  A  born  woman  of  the  South,  she 
seemed  from  the  first  to  have  understood  the 
old  man  thoroughly.  For  many  years  he  has 
never  allowed  her  to  be  at  home  but  a  day  or 
two  before  he  would  spend  all  the  morning 
shining  his  brogans  and  all  the  afternoon  brush- 
ing up  his  double-breasted  "King  Alfred,"  as 
he  calls  it — the  coat  that  his  old  master,  the 
law  partner  of  President  Polk,  gave  him,  fifty 

years  ago.     Then  one  more  morning  is  spent 
121 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

getting  the  dust  and  cobwebs  out  of  his  beaver 
hat,  which  is  also  a  relic  of  the  Polk  adminis- 
tration. Then  he  is  off  to  see  "Little  Glory." 

He  always  comes  back  with  a  little  present 
and  a  happy  smile,  and  during  the  rest  of  the 
summer  he  is  more  her  slave  than  if  the 
shackles  were  really  there. 

This  summer  he  went  as  usual.  I  thought 
his  beaver  never  looked  sleeker,  nor  his  bro- 
gans  brighter,  nor  his  "  King  Alfred  "  so  near 
sweeping,  in  its  majesty,  the  ground. 

He  came  back  with  the  little  present,  but 
not  with  the  smile,  and,  though  he  said  noth- 
ing, 1  noticed  that  from  that  time  on  he 
watched  me  very  closely. 

For  a  while  Thesis  came  now  and  then  to 
see  Miss  Cynthia.  Of  course,  1  would  not 
take  advantage  of  those  visits  to  meet  her, 
since  I  thought  she  was  avoiding  me.  Then 
she  ceased  coming  altogether,  and  when  I  have 
called  at  Colonel  Philips'  I  have  either  met 
Bernice  alone  or  the  two  together.  On  these 
occasions  she  has  acted  as  if  nothing  unusual 
had  happened. 

But  I  never  have  failed  to  fiad  Joe  Forde 
122 


The  Battle  in  Her  Eyes 

there.  Forde  is  now  cashier  of  the  banK  of 
which  Colonel  Philips  is  president.  I  wish  1 
liked  Joe  Forde.  I  have  tried  to,  all  my  life, 
and  failed.  He  is  that  type  of  man  one 
sees  now  and  then,  whom  you  may  know 
all  your  life  and  then  know  nothing  about 
him — except  that  you  don't  like  him.  They 
are  what  the  world  calls  secretive  people. 
Secretiveness  stands  in  the  same  relation  to 
selfishness,  I  have  thought,  that  kleptomania 
does  to  stealing — a  prettier  term  for  it.  And 
they  are  cold-blooded,  terribly  in  earnest 
people, — these  secretive  people.  And  when 
they  combine  with  it  the  lack  of  principle 
which  I  had  felt  was  in  Joe  Forde,  they 
would  wreck  the  world  to  carry  out  their 
plans. 

As  far  back  as  I  can  remember  Joe  Forde 
has  loved  Thesis  in  his  determined,  cold- 
blooded way.  We  were  schoolmates  then, 
and  one  day,  at  recess,  when  he  boastingly 
declared  that  Thesis  was  his  sweetheart,  and 
that  he  would  marry  her  when  he  grew  up,  it 
brought  on  the  stubbornest  battle  I  ever  had. 

I  had  got  him  down  on  the  grass  and  was 
123 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

pounding  him,  when  Thesis  heard  of  it  and 
ran  crying  to  the  scene. 

"Oh,  you  are  killing  Ned,  you  are  killing 
Ned,"  she  cried,  clinging  to  my  neck  and  sob- 
bing,— "How  dare  you,  Joe  Forde  ?" 

I  quit  the  fight  abashed  and  silent.  Up  to 
that  time  I  thought  I  was  killing  him. 

The  Blind  Man  and  I  have  had  several  talks 
about  it,  and  he  has  shaken  his  head  in  an 
ominous  way.  I  do  not  think  he  knows  I 
love  Thesis.  That  is  a  secret  I  have  kept 
even  from  him. 

At  first  I  tried  to  study  it  out  by  myself. 
Then  I  tried  to  study  it  out  through  Bernice. 
I  told  the  Blind  Man  what  I  was  trying  to  do. 
He  smiled  and  said,  "  Let  me  know  when  you 
succeed.  The  man  who  knows  a  woman 
knows  the  world." 

I  did  not  like  to  hear  him  say  that — not  in 
this  connection.  It  did  not  sound  like  him. 
What  1  said  to  myself  was,  "That  may  be  for 
Bernice  ;  but  if  I  can  look  into  Thesis'  eyes 
five  minutes  I  will  read  it  all." 

It  has   had   its  effect  on  me,  and  lately  I 

have  decided  to  make  no  further  effort  to  see 
124 


The  Battle  in  Her  Eyes 

her.  The  next  day  I  would  think  what  a 
fool  1  was  that  1  ever  came  to  such  a  conclu- 
sion. And  then  1  have  paraphrased  the  Blind 
Man's  remarks,  and  said,  "The  man  who 
knows  himself,  knows  the  world." 

What  puzzles  me,  too,  is  her  secret  efforts 
to  throw  Bernice  and  me  together.  In  many 
delicate  ways  she  has  convinced  me  that  Ber- 
nice cares  more  for  me  than  I  thought — really 
more  than  I'd  care  for  her  to  do.  If  I  did  not 
think  Thesis  was  above  it,  I'd  suspect  her  of 
match-making.  It  was  late  in  June  when  I 
heard  that  Bernice  had  gone  away  for  a  week's 
visit.  I  resolved  to  stand  it  no  longer,  and  to 
see  Thesis  alone  that  evening. 

There  was  a  beautiful  moon  shining  through 
the  big  oaks  and  poplars  that  led  up  to  the  old 
place,  and  I  suppose  Alana,  my  saddle-mare, 
must  have  made  very  little  noise,  for  I  had 
noticed  she  had  a  fevered  heel  when  I  mounted, 
so  I  rode  her  across  the  blue-grass  lawn  instead 
of  the  gravel-walk,  to  give  her  the  benefit  of 
the  cool  night-dew.  That  is  why  we  rode  up 
on  something  white  under  the  big  elm  at  the 

library  window  before  we  were  seen. 
125 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

A  maltese  kitten  was  purring  in  her  lap. 
Her  simple  white  dress  was  cut  V-shape  at  her 
splendid  throat,  and  her  golden-brown  hair 
was  in  a  magnificent  coil  above.  A  tiny  golden 
heart  on  a  close-fitting  chain  encircled  her 
neck  and  rested  on  a  bosom  so  pure  that  an 
infant  angel  might  have  laid  his  head  there 
and  dreamed  of  another  heaven.  It  was  a 
simple  little  locket,  but  my  heart  gave  a  leap 
when  1  saw  it.  I  had  given  it  to  her  five  years 
before  on  her  birthday. 

"  And  so  I  have  caught  my  bird  at  last,"  I 
laughed,  as  I  dismounted  and  threw  the  reins 
behind  the  saddle-pommel,  that  Alana  might 
graze.  She  gave  me  her  hand  in  the  frank  old 
way.  I  could  not  help  it — the  next  instant  I 
had  it  in  both  of  mine,  and  had  kissed  it. 

She  was  never  excited,  never  confused. 
There  is  no  guile  in  her  nature,  and,  think- 
ing no  wrong,  she  never  knew  any. 

For  several  moments  she  did  not  speak ; 
neither  did  she  withdraw  her  hand.  I  looked 
into  her  eyes.  They  met  mine  with  that 
serene  calmness  a  summer  morning  throws 

over  a  dew-sprinkled  world,  and  with  the  r«- 
126 


The  Battle  in  Her  Eyes 

fleeted  glory  with  which  the  star-sprinkled  lake 
looks  up  into  the  *'ace  of  a  summer  night. 

"I  am  glad  you  came  to-night,  Ned,"  she 
said,  simply,  as  we  sat  down.  "  It  will  give 
me  a  chance  to  say  something  to  you  I  have 
wanted  to  say — only — but — Ned — I  am  afraid 
I  cannot  say  it, — at  least,  so  that  you  will  un- 
derstand." 

"No — I  do  not  understand  you,"  I  said, 
very  seriously.  "I  have  not  seen  you  alone 
since  you  came  home.  If  I  were  not  a  sensi- 
ble fellow,  Thesis,  and  did  not  love  you,  I'd 


She  almost  started  as  she  interrupted  me  : 
"Ned  !     Promise  me,  Ned,  you'll  not  talk 
that  way — the  old  way — any  more.  You  must 
not.    I  cannot  tell  you  now,  but  we  cannot  be 
friends  any  more,  if  you  do." 

I  looked  quickly  at  her,  and  read  the  sad 
earnestness  that  was  in  her  eyes.  Then  I 
flushed  hot  with  a  mortification  I  had  never  felt 
in  Thesis'  presence  before — and  pale  with  a 
resolution  that  sent  the  steel  into  my  heart 
and  the  blood  out  of  my  cheeks. 

I  wish  I  were  not  so  quick  to  decide.     But 

127      / 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

things  come  to  me  like  bolts  from  a  sky.  I 
wish,  too,  that  I  were  not  so  sensitive.  For  a 
moment  it  seemed  that  my  life  hung  in  a  bal- 
ance. I  saw  myself  standing  where  two  roads 
met,  and  I  was  as  one  chained. 

For  five  minutes  I  did  not  speak.  Neither 
did  Thesis.  But  she  smiled  in  a  pleading, 
pitying  way  as  she  looked  me  innocently  and 
sweetly  in  the  face — a  martyr  smile,  firing 
with  its  hands  the  fagots  around  it. 

Pride — I  wish  I  had  less  of  it.  It  is  a  capital 
brother-in-arms,  but  when  it  becomes  com- 
mander and  leads  us  against  the  breastworks 
of  our  hopes,  behind  which  stands  every  ar- 
mored sweet  dream  of  our  life,  then  it  becomes 
a  tyrant. 

I  did  not  speak.  I  would  have  died  before 
a  volley  of  shrapnel  before  I'd  have  asked  her 
to  explain. 

And  she — never  before  had  I  seen  such  a 
battle  in  human  eyes. 

The  moon  shone  full  on  the  field — the  field 
of  her  glorious  eyes — and  I  watched  the  fight 
and  saw  it  as  plainly  as  Bonaparte  at  Water- 
loo, when  he  stood  on  the  heights  of  Mount 
128 


The  Battle  in  Her  Eyes 

Saint  Jean  and  saw  the  old  guard  go  down  on 
their  last  stubborn  charge. 

And  it  was  a  Waterloo  for  me. 

Five  —  ten  —  fifteen  minutes,  I  sat  and 
watched  it.  I  had  read  the  issue  and  knew 
what  it  was — this  fight  between  some  great 
conception  of,  to  me,  an  unknown  duty,  and 
— my  heart  almost  burst  at  the  thought,  but 
I  felt  it — I  knew  it  ! — my  love. 

1  could  read  her  eyes,  as  I  never  could  any 
other  being's  on  earth.  To  me  they  were  not 
eyes,  but  persons — twin  friends  that  I  loved. 
And  as  I  sat  and  watched  the  fight  go  on  in  the 
moonlighted  field  of  my  hopes,  I  deliberately 
went  over  every  word  of  a  letter  I  had  written 
to  her  just  before  she  came  home.  It  was 
so  sweet  to  me  at  the  time  I  penned  it  that  I 
had  memorized  it,  and  now,  as  I  sat  and 
watched  the  ebb  and  flow,  the  resolve  and 
stubborn  fight — I  could  not  help  it — I  took  her 
hand  in  the  old  way  and,  bending  till  my  lips 
touched  her  cheek,  I  said, 

"  Have  you  forgotten  it,  dear  ?  May  I  re- 
peat it  now  ?"  Intuitively  she  knew  what  I 
meant.  She  nodded.  "All  of  it?"  I  asked. 
9  I29 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

She  nodded  again,  and  I  saw  a  flush  of  crim- 
son pride  sweep  in. 
Then  I  whispered  the  letter  once  again  : 

Your  Eyes. 
(To  Thesis.) 

"  They  haunt  me — they  always  have.  The 
first  thing  I  remember  of  you — when  you  were 
a  tiny  tot — was  your  eyes.  I  could  not  get 
away  from  them,  even  then,  to  look  at  your 
face — they  haunted  me  so.  I  have  seen 
brighter  eyes,  and  gladder  eyes,  eyes  with 
more  sunlight  and  perhaps  more  beautiful, 
but  never  eyes  that  had  the  depth,  the  history, 
of  these.  Never  eyes  that  tell  so  much  of  a 
fight  for  faith,  nor  of  a  sadness  which  no  man 
knows  and  only  a  poet  may  read.  Never 
eyes  that  tell  of  a  truer  courage  or  a  more  un- 
selfish sweetness,  so  sad  and  yet  so  triumph- 
ant in  their  sadness — holding  even  in  their 
darkling  depths  the  twilight  of  a  smile. 

"  Sometimes,  when  I  have  seen  them  in  a 
mood, — the  mood  that  moves  your  soul, — I 
have  despaired  that  I  may  ever  win  your  love 

— that  they  belong  to  some  angel  spirit  that 
130 


The  Battle  in  Her  Eyes 

has  passed  away  from  earth  and  is  beyond 
the  touch  of  all  things  earthly. 

"Then,  again,  when  you  laugh,  they  are 
the  very  personification  of  life,  and  I  almost 
lose  myself  in  the  joy  of  the  thought  that  such 
depths  might  one  day  be  mine  to  know  and  to 
sound.  Oh,  the  depths  of  them  !  Oh,  the 
strength  they  will  throw  into  the  life  of  a 
soulful  man  !  The  man  those  eyes  love  can 
never  be  a  coward.  He  can  no  more  be  weak 
nor  deceive  than  can  the  poet  who  has  learned 
to  look  up  into  the  fathomless  blue  of  the 
heavens — God's  eyes — and  has  seen  Him 
there. 

"  They  are  so  sad,  yet  full  of  such  a  per- 
sonality— so  full,  that  when  I  saw  them  last  I 
distinctly  heard  them  say, 

"  *  I  walk  down  the  valley  of  silence, 

Down  the  dim,  voiceless  valley,  alone ; 
And  1  hear  not  the  fall  of  a  footstep 

Around  me,  save  God's  and  my  own  ; 
And  the  hush  of  my  heart  is  as  holy 
As  hovers  where  angels  have  flown.' 

"  But  the  most  comforting  thought,  to  me, 
about  them,  is  in  the  depth  of  their  pity — their 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

human  pity.  And  that  which  awes  me  most 
about  them  is  their  unflinching  courage  in  the 
path  of  what  they  conceive  to  be  their  duty. 

"  They  are  loyal,  too,  and  the  cause  they 
advocate  or  the  friend  they  love  will  always 
find  them  the  same,  for  the  light  never  changes 
in  these  windows  of  your  soul.  Windows  ? 
Aye,  more  than  windows.  I  would  call  them 
conservatories,  where  everything  above  is 
glass,  and  one  has  only  to  look  and  behold  the 
flowers  that  grow  within — the  flowers  of  hon- 
esty, sincerity,  pureness,  truthfulness — the 
blossom  of  unselfishness  blooming  on  the 
stem  of  queenliness." 

I  kissed  her  cheek  when  I  finished.  She 
did  not  move. 

"  Look  at  me,  Thesis,"  I  whispered.  She 
looked  up — her  eyes  into  mine.  And  then  I 
saw  the  battlefield  was  wet  with  tears. 

Twenty  minutes — twenty-five — passed,  and 
neither  of  us  spoke.  I  prayed  she  would  yield 
and  tell  me  ;  that,  for  once  in  her  life,  the  spirit 
of  earth  might  conquer  the  spirit  of  the  skies. 

A  mocking-bird  awoke  from  a  nearby  bush, 
and  it  seemed  to  me,  as  he  sang,  that  his 
132 


The  Battle  in  Her  Eyes 

notes  had  more  of  the  bugle-charge  than  the 
glory  of  his  love-life. 

Twice  I  thought  she  would  speak  and  tell 
me — that  the  red  line  of  love  would  conquer 
the  white  line  of  duty.  Then  it  was  that  the 
tiny  golden  heart  on  her  bosom  rose  and  fell 
with  the  fluttering  wave  of  a  banner  advanc- 
ing. Red  wave  after  red  wave  marched  over 
her  cheek  ;  then  white  wave  after  white  wave 
followed,  until  I  fancied  I  saw  there  the  em- 
blem of  our  nation's  flag.  But  it  passed 
quickly,  and  the  white  lines  stood  solid. 

"  Oh,  red  love-lines,  rally  !  Come  on  !"  I 
said  to  myself. 

And  then  her  bosom  grew  calm.  The  little 
heart  seemed  scarcely  to  rise  and  fall,  and  I 
knew  the  white  lines  of  duty  had  conquered. 

I  looked  at  my  watch.    It  had  lasted  an  hour. 

"Good-night,  Thesis,"  1  said,  rising. 

"Good-night,  Ned." 

She  raised  her  head.  I  could  not  help  it, — 
and  it  was  taps  for  the  platoons  of  the  white 
lines,  for  their  lights  went  out,  and  in  the 
darkness  a  bold  red  sentinel  seized  their  flag 
and  hurled  it  over  the  ramparts  ! 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

"  Thesis  !  Thesis  !"  I  cried.  "  Will  you  ? 
Will  you  ?  Me?  1,  who  love  you  ?" 

She  turned  and  threw  herself  on  the  bench. 

I  sprang  into  the  saddle,  and  as  I  turned  to 
ride  away  I  saw  two  hands  I  loved  clasped 
above  a  little  golden  locket,  and  the  black 
shadow  of  the  elm,  like  the  stern  commander 
of  the  duty  forces,  stood  over  her. 


THE  VICTORY  OF  FIRE. 

A  THISTLE-DOWN  upon  a  sea  of  Hope, 
Wind  toss'd,  yet  knows  not  whence  they 

are, 
Wave  rocked,  and  hath  no  power  with  them 

to  cope, 

Held  in  the  influence  of  some  unseen  star. 
Above, — the  sky  ;  beneath, — the  unfathom'd 

sea; 

Around,— the  miracles  of  life  and  light — 
Assured  of  death,  his  one  known  destiny, — 
Grim   anchorage  in   the  pale  gates  of  the 
night. 

And  yet  across  the  sea  of  fate  and  foam, 
To  him  that  will,  Faith  finds  a  pathway 
home.— 


'3$ 


CHAPTER  X. 

BERNICE  is  a  magnificent  creature.  I  have 
seen  her  frequently  of  late.  She  shall 
never  know  why  I  went  so  often  at  first.  Only 
my  heart  shall  know  it.  Yet  I  could  never  see 
Thesis  alone. 

"The  man  who  knows  a  woman,  knows 
the  world,"  quoth  the  Blind  Man.  I  would 
give  the  world  to  know  Thesis  again.  Had  I 
offended  her  ?  No,  not  unless  love  was  an 
offense ;  and  I  have  yet  to  hear  of  a  woman 
who  considered  it  so.  Does  she  dislike  me? 
My  own  heart  tells  me  better  than  that. 

Whenever  I  have  met  her  on  the  street  or 
in  company  she  is  the  same  gracious  Thesis. 
If  I  could  only  see  her  long  enough  to  read  her 
eyes  again  !  But  she  will  not  look  at  me  in 
the  old  way.  And  I  ?  Pride  is  a  stubborn 
thing. 

I  have  thought  of  numberless  ways  to  meet 
her  and  force  her  to  tell  me  why  she  has  willed 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

it  that  the  old  way  must  be  forgotten.  But 
whenever  I  formulate  a  plan  it  always  fades  in 
the  shadowy  uncertainty  of  an  hour  under  the 
elms,  the  sweet  sorrow  of  a  moonlit  night, where 
I  begged  with  my  eyes  for  the  explanation  that 
should  have  been  mine  for  the  asking. 

To  ask  again  would  be  only  manacling 
defeat. 

Last  week  1  met  her  on  the  road  as  I  was 
driving  to  town.  She  had  found  a  deserted 
oriole's  nest  and  was  taking  it  home  to  add  to 
her  little  museum.  I  had  written  Bernice  I 
would  call  the  night  before,  but  something 
prevented. 

"  That  is  a  pretty  specimen,"  I  said.  "  How 
did  you  get  it  ?" 

"  It  was  on  the  tip  end  of  the  limb  of  a  wil- 
low. I  had  a  little  negro  boy  to  climb  and  get 
it  for  me." 

There  was  a  silence  of  a  few  minutes.  I 
saw  she  felt  it  was  becoming  embarrassing, 
and  1  thought  it  was  scarcely  like  her, 
when  she  said,  "Someone  at  our  house  was 
disappointed  that  you  did  not  come  last 
evening." 

13* 


The  Victory  of  Fire 

"Was  it  you,  Thesis  ?"  I  asked  earnestly, 
looking  straight  into  her  eyes. 

She  colored  quickly,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  Was  it  you,  Thesis  ?  '  Tell  me  if  it  was, 
and  let  us  end  this  folly." 

She  looked  at  me  very  calmly  and  said, 
"It  was  Bernice."  I  cut  my  horse  viciously 
with  the  whip.  1  begged  his  pardon  after- 
wards, but  before  1  could  soothe  his  wounded 
feelings  he  had  left  her  standing  in  the  road. 
Then,  in  sheer  desperation,  I  caught  myself 
saying  over  and  over  again,  "  Bernice  is  a 
magnificent  creature." 

The  next  evening  1  went  to  see  Bernice. 
This  time  Joe  Forde  was  there,  and  the  con- 
versation became  general.  Thesis  I  thought 
was  unusually  quiet.  Bernice  was  explaining 
her  idea  of  love.  "It  is  Platonic  love,  in  the 
end,"  she  said,  "  that  lasts." 

"  Ned,"  said  Thesis. 

I  turned  quickly  to  the  quiet  form  that  was 
speaking  to  me,  yet  looking  longingly  out  of 
the  window  across  the  fields. 

"  Ned,  have  you  got  the  little  trundle-bed  at 
Lynwood  yet — in  its  old  place  ?'* 
'39 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

Bernice  laughed.  "  In  heaven's  name,  what 
has  a  trundle-bed  to  do  with  Platonic  love  ?" 

I  went  over  to  where  Thesis  was  sitting. 
My  heart  had  leaped  and  was  beating  wildly 
to  hear  her  ask,  in  the  old  way,  this  simple 
question.  Had  it  been  written  in  a  book  of 
gold  it  could  have  carried  no  fuller  meaning. 

"  Thesis  !"  I  whispered.     "  Thesis !" 

"I — I — wasn't  thinking,"  she  said  ner- 
vously. "  Don't  you  see,  you  have  left  Ber- 
nice and  Mr.  Forde  ?" 

"Thesis!"  I  said,  sternly. 

"  Ned,  if  you  must  know — Bernice — Ber- 
nice," she  whispered,  and  nodded  to  me  to 
look. 

"Yes,  she  is  a  magnificent  creature,"  I 
added,  glancing  at  the  queenly  face  that  was 
looking  down  on  Joe  Forde.  Then  I  almost 
started  when  I  read  the  look  that  was  in  the 
haughty  bearing  of  her  head — in  the  calm  con- 
tempt of  her  eyes.  Forde  was  trying  to  talk 
to  her.  He  was  saying  something  explanatory. 
She  was  listening,  but  with  a  look  Minerva 
might  cast  on  an  offending  mortal. 

I  should  dislike  to  have  Bernice  Philips  de- 
140 


The  Victory  of  Fire 

spise  me  as  much  as  1  saw  she  did  the  narrow 
little  soul  before  her.  I  turned  to  Thesis  for 
an  explanation.  She  only  shook  her  head. 
Then  she  whispered  to  me,  "  Isn't  Bernice 
magnificent  ?  I  should  think  every  man  would 
be  in  love  with  her." 

"Thesis,"  1  said,  "I  wish  very  much  to 
speak  to  some  one  on  the  porch, — will  you  ?" 

She  nodded.     "  I'll  see  that  you  do." 

I  had  selected  a  favorite  seat  under  a  wis- 
taria vine,  and  was  thinking  how  I  should  talk 
to  her  in  the  old  way  without  sacrificing  my 
pride,  when  Bernice  came  out. 

"Thesis  said  you  wished  to  speak  to  me, 
and  I  am  glad  to  get  away,"  she  said,  "for  I 
hate  that  man,  Ned — I  hate  him  !" 

1  thought  she  never  looked  so  queenly  be- 
fore,—the  Philips  pride  ablaze  in  her  eyes; 
her  whole  nature  that  of  the  daughter  of  a 
baron  whose  pride  had  been  wounded  in  her 
father's  halls. 

For  a  while  I,  too,  was  silent.  My  heart 
seemed  turned  to  stone  at  this  last  rebuff  from 
Thesis.  Self-preservation  is  the  first  law  of 
love,  as  of  life.  Let  love  but  see  annihilation 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

ahead,  and  how  quickly  it  will  bring  up  its 
other  forces  to  help  it  out — to  save  it  from 
death — wounded  pride,  indifference,  "  'tis  bet- 
ter so," — the  light  of  other  eyes,  the  will  to 
forget,  aye,  even  the  conscriptment  of  another 
love  for  the  one  that  has  fallen. 

As  I  looked  at  her  in  her  beauty  and  mag- 
nificence, the  queenliest  woman  of  the  blue- 
grass  lands,  I  made  a  reckless  resolve.  I 
would  conquer  one  love  with  another.  I 
would  love  Bernice. 

Oh,  Love!  Oh, Thesis!  Will  you  forgive  me  ? 

Bernice  is  a  magnificent  creature.  I  began 
to  look  upon  her  with  increasing  pride.  How 
she  would  grace  Lynwood!  How  proud  I 
should  be  to  introduce  so  queenly  a  woman  as 
my  wife  !  I  had  never  seen  her  so  gracious  as 
she  was  that  night.  Her  haughtiness  seemed 
to  melt,  and  once  or  twice  I  thought  I  saw  cer- 
tain tokens  of  an  affection  I  had  never  seen  in 
her  nature  before. 

She  was  beautiful  and  charming  in  her  bril- 
liancy. She  was  beautiful — superbly  so — and 
held  me  strangely  fascinated. 

And  what  is  love,  anyway,  I  said  to  myself, 
142 


The  Victory  of  Fire 

but  the  passing  chariot  of  two  sentimental 
souls,  carrying,  in  a  kind  of  dream-float,  a  cas- 
tle of  the  air,  to  be  drawn  through  gates  of 
imagery  and  gold,  guarding  the  realms  of  para- 
dise, only  to  come  back  to  earth  again  ?  How 
much  better  off  the  world  would  be  if  people 
would  let  sense  and  not  sentiment  dictate 
with  whom  they  should  live,  till  death— or  the 
divorce  court — divides  them. 

Bernice  is  a  magnificent  creature. 

While  we  were  talking  1  heard  some  one  go 
into  the  parlor  where  Forde  and  Thesis  were. 
It  was  Colonel  Philips,  and  he  looked  worried, 
and  even  distressed.  He  spoke  to  Forde 
pleasantly,  but  I  saw  he  was  ill  at  ease  in  his 
cashier's  presence.  1  knew  as  soon  as  I  saw 
them  exchange  glances  that  there  was  some- 
thing between  them — a  certain  triumphant 
self-assertiveness  on  the  part  of  Joe  Forde  and 
dogged  compliance  on  the  part  of  Colonel 
Philips — which  no  one  but  they  understood. 
Colonel  Philips  is  a  very  weak  man.  His 
besetting  weakness  is  his  false  pride,  and  1 
knew  to-night  it  was  strained  and  tried  to  its 
highest  notch  when  he  could  humble  himself 

H3 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

as  I  saw  him  do,  and  cringe  and  drop  his  posi- 
tiveness  and  manhood  before  such  a  man  as 
Joe  Forde.  In  a  moment  I  saw  that  the  cashier 
was  really  the  president,  that  the  servant  was 
the  master. 

When  I  left  an  hour  afterward,  it  seemed  I 
had  never  understood  Bernice  so  fully.  We 
had  talked  as  we  never  had  before.  There 
was  a  tinge  of  bitterness  in  her  nature  I  did 
not  admire,  it  is  true,  but  there  was  an  intel- 
lectuality there  that  was  superb.  She  was  ir- 
responsive and  distant.  But  I  could  love  her 
— yes,  as  one  would  love  with  awe  a  glacier 
among  the  Alps. 

Joe  Forde  had  gone.  I  was  thinking  of 
Bernice  as  I  passed  down  the  walk  to  where 
my  mare  stood  tied.  It  led  around  a  wing  of 
the  house,  in  the  upper  story  of  which  was  the 
simple  little  room  I  knew  was  Thesis'.  I  had 
seen  it  often  when  we  were  children.  I  knew 
every  nook,  every  corner,  how  each  picture 
hang  in  it.  In  the  shadow  of  the  oak,  as  I 
untied  my  horse,  I  looked  up  and  saw  a  motto 
hung  upon  the  opposite  wall  in  her  room ;  it 

was  framed  in  lilac  and  blue, 
144 


The  Victory  of  Fire 

"  Love  seeketh  not  her  own." 

I  must  have  made  a  noise  as  1  mounted. 
She  came  to  the  window  and  looked  down. 

"Is  it  you,  Ned?" 

"I  am  just  going,"  I  said. 

"  Wait.  I  had  written  you  something  I  was 
going  to  mail  to  you.  You  must  read  it  and 
be  brave,  and  then,  Ned  " — here  she  leaned 
out  of  the  window,  and  as  I  saw  her  face  and 
beautiful  hair  in  a  parapet  of  lace  and  light 
1  thought  of  the  Blessed  Damosel  on  the  para- 
pet of  heaven — "  Then,  Ned,  you  must  forget 
me." 

She  was  gone,  but  the  next  instant  a  card 
fluttered  out.  I  dismounted  and  picked  it  up. 
Then  1  struck  a  match  on  Alana's  saddle-skirt 
and  read.  It  was  her  visiting  card,  with  her 
name  on  one  side.  On  the  other,  a  violet  was 
pinned  ;  through  this,  written  in  her  fine  hand, 

"  Peace  I  leave  with  you Not  as 

the  world  giveth,  give  I  unto  you.  Let  not 
your  heart  be  troubled,  neither  let  it  be 
afraid." 

1  kissed  it  and  put  it  in  my  waistcoat  pocket, 
10  145 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

and  the  world,  the  stars  and  the  heavens  have 
smelt  of  violets  ever  since. 

But  Bernice, — I  said  in  sheer  desperation  as 
I  rode  out  of  the  gate — she  is  a  magnificent 
creature. 

There  are  days  when  we  all  have  disgusts, 
and  so  I  said  to  the  Blind  Man  the  next  day, 

"  It's  all  nonsense — this  thing  called  love." 

The  Blind  Man  smiled. 

"  Real  love  is  founded  on  common  sense," 
I  went  on.  "The  other  is  founded  on  senti- 
ment. Real  love  is  the  child  of  the  will,  of 
judgment,  of  cool  reason  and  calm  resolve. 
The  other  is  the  fledgling  of  moonshine  and 
accident.  Falling  in  love !"  I  added,  derisively 
— "  That's  a  good  term  for  it,  and  correctly 
expressed.  And  the  fall  is  often  fatal,  and 
nearly  as  bad  as  falling  down  the  elevator- 
shaft.  A  man  can  love  any  woman  if  he  so 
wills — any  good  and  physically  perfect  woman 
— and  be  happy  with  her." 

The  Blind  Man  interrupted  me  with  a  sar- 
castic wink.  "And  if  she  happens  to  will  it 
otherwise,  there'll  be  a  conflict  of  wills — a  cat 
and  parrot  time,  eh  ?" 

146 


The  Victory  of  Fire 

"Physical  beauty,"  I  went  on,  "is  the 
foundation  of  it  all.  The  rest  is  a  mixture  of 
the  monkey  and  donkey  that  is  in  us, — or,  if 
you  please,  sentiment,"  I  said. 

"Ned,"  said  the  Blind  Man,  "is  the  flag 
still  floating  from  the  arsenal  staff  ?  I  wish  I 
could  see  it  again.  God  bless  it !  But  is  it 
still  there  ?  A  bit  of  silk,  my  boy,  with  red 
and  white  stripes  on  it,  and  stars  in  a  square 
of  blue.  A  practical  thing — just  silk ;  and  a 
sensible  thing — just  certain  colors.  A  yard  or 
two  of  cloth,  which  in  a  store  you  might  rip 
up  and  sell  at  so  much  a  yard.  But  let  insult 
fire  a  bullet  through  it,  and  see  how  quickly 
the  land  would  be  baptized  with  blood.  Fifty 
millions  of  people  would  charge  through  hell 
to  die  for  it.  It  is  sentiment — soul — that  rules 
the  world  at  last.  Your  soul  is  asleep  to-day, 
my  boy,  but  I  could  awaken  you  in  five  min- 
utes with  a  sentiment,  such  as,  for  instance, 
dying  to  save  you " 

I  glanced  quickly  up  at  him — there  was  so 
much  earnestness  in  his  manner. 

"  Such  as  dying  to  save  you,  my  boy,"  he 
went  on  "which  you  know  I'd  do  if  neces- 
U7 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

sary,  and  it  would  arouse  a  sentiment,  a  soul  in 
you  which,  compared  with  your  body,  would  be 
like  that  sun  up  yonder  compared  with  the  thing 
which  1  am  kicking  out  from  under  my  heel," 
— and  he  kicked  a  piece  of  flint  into  the  road. 

Then  he  laughed  and  said,  as  he  walked  off, 
"  Ned,  a  man's  liver  is  a  map  of  his  life.  I'd 
advise  you  to  have  yours  looked  into." 

I  went  away  still  more  wretched. 

A  wretched  man  will  do  anything.  And  so 
1  began  systematically  to  work  to  try  to  forget 
Thesis. 

Wounded  love,  run  through  a  vital  spot, 
how  hard  it  fights  for  life  ! 

1  brought  all  the  forces  of  my  will  to  work, 
and  backed  them  with  the  battalion  I  had 
called  Common  Sense.  Thesis  was  poor. 
Bernice  was  rich.  Thesis  was  quiet  and 
domestic,  and  cared  little  for  society.  Ber- 
nice was  a  magnificent  creature,  whom  to  be 
husband  to  meant  to  be  envied  of  men.  Thesis 
was  lovely  in  her  way.  Bernice  was  a  magnifi- 
cent creature. 

Oh,  Love  !    Oh,  Thesis  !    Will  you  forgive 

me  ? 

148 


The  Victory  of  Fire 

That  night  I  felt  I  had  conquered  myself, 
until  I  picked  up  my  favorite  volume  of  Keats. 
Pressed  in  its  pages  was  a  snow-white  summer 
lily.  Thesis  had  given  it  to  me  only  a  year 
ago  that  very  summer  night,  as  we  sat  on  a 
rustic  bench  in  the  moonlight.  She  had  worn 
it  all  evening  over  her  own  heart.  When  I 
left,  she  had  pinned  it  over  mine. 

I  could  see  it  all.  It  came  back  to  me — 
the  sweetness,  the  glory  of  it — the  very  smell 
of  her  hair.  She  had  never  used  either  a  per- 
fume or  a  powder,  but  like  a  lily  that  brews 
its  own  sweetness  in  the  laboratory  of  its 
soul  she  carried  always  with  her  a  perfume 
which  had  no  duplicate  on  earth. 

I  arose  and  began  to  walk  the  floor. 

Talk  about  material  things  and  that  the  soul 
is  not  immortal,  I  thought,  when  the  sight  of  a 
faded  flower  will  bring  back  a  whole  summer  of 
life  and  love — will  beget  living  months,  children 
of  immortality.  Talk  about  death  ending  all, 
when  the  smell  of  a  lock  of  hair,  cut  in  imagina- 
tion even,  from  the  brow  of  a  summer  of  long 
ago,  begets  a  love  that  will  live  beyond  the 

skies.    Talk  about  disintegration  and  annihila- 
149 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

tion,  when  the  very  memory  of  a  lost  love 
may  become  the  resurrected  dream  of  an  im- 
mortality. 

It  poured  in  on  me  as  a  flood.  1  could  see 
the  thoughts  coming  before  they  reached  me, 
in  troops  and  in  crowds. 

Oh,  divinest  evidence  of  immortality,  when 
we  have  within  ourselves  the  wonderful  pro- 
cess of  living  our  own  life  again;  when  a 
thought  from  the  soul  can  bring  back  another 
thought  which  was  dead  and  buried,  and  as 
it  rises  from  the  grave  and  stands  before  us, 
chastened  and  in  white,  we  have  only  to  look 
and  see  our  double  self — Ourself  of  the  Pres- 
ent passing  judgment  on  Ourself  of  the  Past 
— pointing  its  wand  at  every  grave  of  the  past 
and  calling  forth  one  unbroken  rank  of  spirit 
beings,  beginning  with  a  cherub  face  in  a 
cradle  and  ending  in  a  white-winged,  shadowy 
thing  of  the  stars. 

"  '  Aye,  but  we  die,'  saith  the  fool." 

In  a  moment  it  all  came  back  to  me.  As  one 
who  dreams,  1  saw  the  little  gold  locket  around 
her  neck.  1  arose  to  go  ;  and  she,  as  she  had 

done  since  we  were  children,  she  arose  and 
150 


The  Victory  of  Fire 

stood  by  my  side.  She  took  the  lily  from  her 
heart  and  pinned  it  over  mine.  Then  she  put 
her  hands  on  my  shoulders,  tipped  up,  kissed 
me,  and  said,  "Good-nighf,  Ned.  Take  care 
of  yourself  for  your  Thesis." 

I  shut  the  book  quickly.  I  was  panting  for 
breath.  Myself  of  the  Present  called  up  My- 
self of  Last  Week  and  sat  in  judgment  on  it. 
And  what  an  evidence  of  divinity  in  the  soul 
it  is  that  the  soul  of  the  present  is  always 
allowed  to  judge  the  soul  of  the  past. 

I  was  ablaze  with  indignation  at  myself  of 
last  week.  I  felt  I  was  a  iudge,  indeed,  and 
exclaimed  aloud, 

"  What  a  fool  you  were  !  Platonic  love  ! 
It  will  win  nothing  in  this  world  nor  the  next." 

"  Dat's  a  fac',  boss— dat's  a  fac  V 

This  brought  me  back  to  earth.  From  the 
sublime  to  the  ridiculous  is  only  a  step.  It 
was  old  Wash,  and  he  had  come  to  tell  me 
how  Marjorie,  the  pacing  filly,  was  stepping, 
as  he  termed  it,  in  her  work.  The  old  man 
knew  of  every  race  for  forty  years,  and  he 
evidently  thought  I  was  talking  horse  to  my- 
selfy  for  he  went  on, 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

"  I  knowed  dat  boss  you  call  'Tonic  Love. 
I  seed  Mm  go  at  Hartford  'way  back  in  de  seb- 
enties." 

I  smiled,  but  1  remembered  the  race  in 
which  Platonic  Love  was  a  first  favorite. 

"  Don't  you  'member  de  day,"  he  went  on, 
"when  he  struck  de  gang  dar — True  Blue, 
Bridal  Morn,  De  Gal  I  Lef  Benin'  Me,  an'  Dat 
Ole  Sweetheart  Ob  Mine  ?  Don't  you  'mem- 
ber it, — fur  you  wus  dar, — an'  whut  he  was 
gwine  do  to  de  crowd  ?  Don't  you  'member 
what  fine  harness  he  had,  an'  dat  five  hun- 
dred dollah  sulky  ?  How  he  pranced  an' 
paced  an'  scored  by  de  gran'  stan'  lak  de  wind 
afire,  till  de  gamblers  bet  on  'im  five  to  one 
an'  it  looked  lak  de  yearth  was  his'n?  He 
made  de  yudders  look  lak  twenty  cents  till  de 
race  was  called,  an'  den  dey  made  him  look 
lak  a  pewter  nickel  in  de  vaults  ob  a  busted 
bank. 

"  Lor',  whut  fun  I  had  !  I'd  bet  all  my  hen- 
aig  an'  potater  an'  'possum  money  on  de  little 
Mizzuri  filly — Dat  Ole  Sweetheart  Ob  Mine 
— bet  on  her  fur  her  name  sake — fur  I'd  ruther 

walk   home   eny  day,  busted  in  a   right'ous 
152 


The  Victory  of  Fire 

cause,  than  to  win  on  a  fraud  an*  ride  home  in 
a  Pullmum  palace. 

"Dey  called  de  race,  and  den  de  fun 
begun.  Ole  'Tonic  Love  was  all  right  on 
parade,  but  a  counterfeit  in  de  real  battle. 
Whut  er  awful  time  dey  had  gittin'  'im  to 
score  down — gittin'  him  to  start  eben!  When 
all  de  yudders  jes'  wanted  to  march  down  like 
a  weddin'  procession,  he'd  break,  an'  balk,  an* 
hate  ter  cum'  to  de  scratch.  De  yudders 
knowed  what  dey  wanted,  an'  wus  reddy  fur 
de  word — reddy  to  go  de  race  ob  dey  life,  an' 
take  it,  weal  or  woe,  good  or  bad  till  death 
us  do  part.  But  ole  'Tonic  Love  wus  onsar- 
tain,  'an  thinkin'  mebbe  he  wus  mistaken, 
an*  sorter  tired,  an*  all  dat.  An'  when  dey 
did  git  off,  boss,  don't  you  'member  how  he 
dun  ?  Broke  at  de  fus'  quarter,  fell  down  at 
de  half,  caught  de  flag  in  de  fus'  heat,  an' 
died  dat  night  in  his  stall  ob  wind  colic  ?  I 
tell  you,  boss,  'Tonic  Love  neber  was  knowed 
to  go  de  battle  ob  life — it  takes  de  Ole  Sweet- 
heart kind  to  stan'  all  de  trials  an*  sorrers  an' 
dispintments  and  land  yur  a  winner  at  de  wire. 

"  But,    Lor'    bless    yo'    soul,   honey,   dat 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

little  Mizzuri  pacin'  filly — Dat  Ole  Sweetheart 
Ob  Mine — wa'n't  she  a  daisy  ?  Wa'n't  she  oiJ 
in  de  can  ?  Didn't  need  no  overcheck,  knee 
boots,  nor  nuffin'.  Hadn't  no  waste  action. 
Glided  along  lak'  a  double-action  locomotive 
on  silver-plated  rails.  Had  it  nip  an'  tuck  wid 
True  Blue  de  fus'  heat,  but  beat  'er  only  by  a 
nose.  Fought  out  de  naixt  one  wid  Bridal 
Morn  an'  De  Gal  I  Lef  Benin'  Me,  an'  beat 
'm  by  a  lash,  and  den  she  paced  de  whole 
gang  to  a  stan'still,  busted  de  rekerd,  an' 
made  de  man  dat  owned  her  rich  an'  happy. 
Don't  you  'member  it,  boss?" 

I  must  have  been  listening  with  an  amused 
smile,  for  he  went  on,  slyly  and  cunningly, 

"  Boss,  don't  tie  onto  eny  filly  bekase  she 
is  a  high-stepper,  wid  a  graceful  neck  an'  goes 
all  de  gaits.  Don't  take  'er  jes'  becase  she  is 
sound  an'  city  broke.  Don't  buy  her  on  her 
pedigree,  eben  if  it  do  run  back  to  imported 
Diomed  on  one  side  an'  Colonial  Dams  on  de 
yudder,  fur  I've  knowed  many  a  man  to  git 
nuthin' but  a  pedigree.  Don't  do  it,  boss.  I've 
seed  'em,  an'  dey  allers  look  better  in  a  pic- 
ture den  dey  do  in  de  homestretch.  But  stick 


The  Victory  of  Fire 

to  de  Ole  Sweetheart  kind,  dat  am  sound  an' 
senserbul  an'  true,  dat  don't  wear  nuffin'  but 
de  harness,  an*  allers  reddy  fur  de  race.  Take 
dem  dat  you  know,  an*  lub  all  yo'  life,  dat 
ain't  got  no  wheels  in  her  haid,  but  plenty 
ob  Trabeler  crosses  on  her  dam's  side " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?"  I  said 
with  feigned  indignation. 

"Why,  I  are  talkin'  about  hosses,  sah,  an' 
ef  you'll  step  out  to  de  barn  I'll  show  you 
whut  I  are  talkin'  about." 

1  smiled  and  followed. 

In  his  favorite  room  in  the  barn,  where  he 
kept  the  harness  nicely  oiled  and  the  saddles 
hung  and  the  floor  always  swept,  just  over  a 
stall  door  he  had  hung  a  picture  of  Thesis  she 
had  given  him  years  ago.  He  had  framed  it  in 
a  horseshoe,  and  to-day  he  had  twined  around 
it  a  cluster  of  wild  roses.  Just  beneath  it  a 
beautiful  chestnut  head  with  a  star  and  blaze 
— a  head  like  a  steed  of  the  Caesars  carved  in 
cameo — looked  satisfyingly  out  from  the  upper 
part  of  the  stall  door.  I  patted  her  cheek. 
She  was  my  and  the  old  man's  pet,  this 
Brown  Hal  filly.  Not  a  day  of  her  life  we 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

had  not  prophesied  great  things  of  her,  told 
each  other  of  her  wonderful  points,  her  great 
speed,  and  strength,  and  gentleness  and 
sense.  Now  she  was  four  years  old  and 
ready  for  the  races.  I  stood  admiring  the  pic- 
ture, the  beautiful,  sensitive  chestnut  head  be- 
low, the  calm,  sweet,  divinely  fair  one  above. 

The  old  man  looked,  too.  Then  he  stepped 
before  them  and  said,  with  a  comical  bow  and 
gesture,  "Boss,  dar's  de  gal  an'  dar's  de 
filly." 

That  night  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  I 
would  see  Thesis  at  all  hazards,  and  I  hum^ 
bled  my  pride  when  I  rode  over  to  the  ol«i 
place. 

"  Is  Thesis  at  home  ?"  I  asked  of  Bernice. 

Yes,  but  she  had  an  engagement  with  Mr, 
Forde,  and  they  were  within. 

"  Damn  Mr.  Forde  !"  was  what  I  thought  to 
myself.  What  I  said  was,  "  He  has  grown 
very  rich  of  late  by  a  deal  in  bank  stock." 

"Could  you  keep  a  family  secret  ?"  asked 
Bernice  as  she  came  up  to  my  side  and  whis 
pered  in  my  ear.  "  Thesis  is  going  to  marry 

Mr.  Forde.     It  is  all  arranged 
156 


The  Victory  of  Fire 

A  big  star  which  had  just  arisen  above  the 
black  hills  which  fringed  the  West  was  blink- 
ing and  scintillating  as  if  its  very  soul  was 
shaken.  I  remember  distinctly  how  queerly 
it  acted.  Then  the  others  seemed  to  partake 
of  its  wild  excitement,  and  acted  as  if  a  thou- 
sand electric  demons  had  been  loosened  in 
their  hearts. 

I  sat  down  on  the  railing  of  the  veranda  and 
clutched  the  post.  When  I  remembered  very 
distinctly  again,  Bernice  was  calmly  saying, 
"  I  suppose  it  is  a  good  arrangement  all  around, 
only  I  am  sorry  for  Thesis.  But  Mr.  Forde 
is  eligible  and  rich,  and  real  love  is  founded 
on  common  sense  at  last." 

I  believe  life  is  so  adjusted  and  balanced 
that  a  man  pays  to  the  debit  of  every  false 
deed  or  thought  a  credit  coined  from  the  sweat 
and  anguish  of  his  soul. 

Never  had  words  come  back  more  quickly 
to  roost. 

I  do  not  know  exactly  how  it  happened,  but 
when  1  left  1  was  engaged  to  Bernice. 


'57 


A  SMILE  IN  THE  DARK. 

HEAVEN-BREWED  nectar  from  the  eter- 
nal hills, 

Essence  of  truth  and  sweet  beneficence- 
Soul  of  the  summer  cloud  and  winter  rills 

Distilled  in  glorious  munificence. 
Symbol  of  all  pureness,  and  holding  up 
The  eye  of  nature  to  the  face  of  form, 
The  perfumed  lake  within  the  lily's  cup, 
The  white  blanched  cheek  of  ocean  in  the 

storm. 

Thin  mist  veiling  round  the  cheek  of  morn, 
Spirit  of  rainbows  and  the  evening  skies, 
Hung  in  rich  drapery  when  the  stars  are  born 
And  peep  from  out  with  wondering,  baby 
eyes. 

Purity,  by  angels  lent  in  globes  of  love — 
Innocence,  which  God  has  sent  from  heaven 
above. 

To  an  Artesian  Well. 


'59 


CHAPTER    XL 

I  THINK  the  holiest  sight  I  ever  saw  was 
Thesis  leading  the  Blind  Man  to  church. 
All  her  life  she  has  been  a  great  favorite  of 
Mr.  Emerson.  He  has  petted  her  from  a 
child,  and  she  still  calls  him  by  the  baby  name 
her  lips  first  made  of  Emerson — "Tern."  She 
is  very  fond  of  him,  and  in  his  bluff  way  he 
says  of  her,  "  Ned,  God  made  only  one  like 
her — then  he  lost  the  pattern." 

In  vacation  days  she  would  never  allow  his 
negro  boy  to  take  him  to  church.  She 
always  claimed  that  as  her  privilege.  And  he 
is  the  only  man  who  ever  went  to  church  with 
Thesis. 

One  summer  she  said  to  me,  in  her  sweet, 
frank  way,  "  I  do  not  think  I  ought  to  go  to 
church  with  you,  Ned  ;  and  you  know  I'd 
rather  go  with  you  than  any  other  of  my 

friends.    It  seems  to  me  too  sacred  a  thing  for 
ii  161 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

even  friends  to  divide  it.  There  we  should 
put  everything  but  God  aside.  I  do  not  like 
to  hear  of  close  communion  and  open  commu- 
nion. I  think  we  should  commune  only  with 
God.  I  cannot  understand  how  people  can 
go  to  church  as  if  it  were  a  society  event ;  and 
as  for  young  people  going  there  to  indulge  in 
idle  twaddle,  oh,  Ned,  isn't  that  sacrilege  ?" 

But  as  I  said,  she  leads  the  Blind  Man  to 
church  every  Sunday  morning.  And  it  was 
last  Sunday  morning  that  I  made  a  discovery. 
It  was  when  she  took  his  hand,  in  her  inno- 
cent way.  Then  I  saw  a  new  light  leap  into 
his  eyes.  I  was  standing  near  when  she 
found  him.  She  had  gone  to  his  home  as 
usual,  but  he  had  gone  down  town  after  the 
mail. 

"You  have  tried  to  run  off  from  me  to- 
day," she  laughed,  as  she  caught  up  with 
him  ;  "  but  you  know  you  cannot  do  that, 
Tern.  Hold  him,  Ned,"  she  laughed,  "while 
I  catch  him." 

The  Blind  Man  held  out  his  hands.  There 
was  absolute  radiance  in  his  face.  She  took 

one  of  his  hands,  and  then  1  saw  it  all. 
162 


A  Smile  in  the  Dark 

They  passed  on  down  the  street.  I  do  not 
think  the  Blind  Man  himself  knew  what  I  had 
discovered.  There  was  no  consciousness  on 
his  part  to  show  it.  His  was  as  a  cloud- 
clothed  night  suddenly  lit  up  by  the  pulsing 
smile  of  summer  lightning.  The  clouds  were 
there — he  knew  that ;  they  were  a  part  of  his 
night — but  the  sweet  light  that  lit  them  up  for 
a  moment, — he  did  not  make  it,  he  knew  not 
whence  it  came.  God  had  sent  it,  and  it  lit 
up  his  night.  That  was  enough  for  him. 

From  that  time  on  my  love  and  pity  for  the 
Blind  Man  has  been  deeper.  It  was  as  if  I  had 
looked  on  one  who,  condemned  to  grope  in 
solitary  confinement  in  a  dungeon,  has  seen  by 
the  star-beam  that  shone  for  a  moment,  each 
night,  through  a  crevice  in  his  prison,  the 
image  of  an  inaccessible  love,  walking  in  the 
sunlight  of  another  world.  He  was  utterly 
unconscious  that  he  loved  Thesis.  I  knew 
that  by  the  very  openness  of  it — the  unre- 
served radiance  of  it — the  child-like  simplicity 
with  which  he  revealed  it. 

In  the  shade  of  a  tree  which  grew  up  by  the 

walk  he  suddenly  stopped.     She  looked  up  at 
163 


him  and  smiled.  He  never  saw  that  smile, 
and  then  I  thought  to  him  had  come  the  crown- 
ing sorrow  of  blindness — never  to  see  the  smile 
of  the  woman  he  loved. 

One  may  sorrow  never  to  see  again  the 
sunset.  Never  more  to  stand  upon  The  Knob, 
and  see  the  faint  and  far-off  reflection  in  the 
rock-cleft  shadows  of  the  Duck,  making  a  sun- 
set above  and  a  sunset  below.  Because, 
having  once  seen  it,  one  may  see  it  forever  in 
memory's  eye.  And  the  bridge  over  the 
Duck,  aye,  it  would  be  hard  to  give  that  up. 
To  stand  upon  it  no  more  at  midnight  with 
the  stars  above  and  the  stars  in  the  river  be- 
low. With  the  river  flowing  like  a  flaming 
diamond  through  sides  of  sapphire  under  great 
lime  boulders  that  seem  to  prop  the  skies. 
The  Duck,  bold-bluffed  and  crooked,  darken- 
ing in  shadows  or  shimmering  in  starlight,  and 
never  yet  desecrated  by  the  touch  of  a  wheel 
of  commerce.  One  may  forget  even  that,  or 
the  sleeping  hills  and  nodding  woods  and  cool 
cedar  groves,  carpeted  with  velvet  moss,  that 
wind  around  the  never-failing  sweetness  of  the 

"  Kiss-Me-Quick  "  pike.     Or  the  glory  of  a 
164 


A  Smile  in  the  Dark 

June  day  among  the  hills  of  Maury,  stretching 
above  them,  as  they  sleep,  like  the  film  of  lace 
drapery  over  the  crib  of  a  sturdy  babe.  Or 
the  clouds — poems  writ  in  the  sky  ;  the  look 
of  children  ;  the  romance  of  a  risen  morn  ;  the 
ever-changing  yet  perpetual  story  and  glory  of 
Nature  as  she  lives  and  loves  in  the  Middle 
Basin. 

But  God  pity  the  man  who  has  never  seen 
the  smile  of  the  woman  he  loves. 

She  looked  up  in  his  face  and  smiled. 

"Thesis,"  said  the  Blind  Man,  "are  you 
as  pretty  as  you  used  to  be  ?  I  haven't  seen 
you  since  you  were  a  child." 

"Tern,  you  rogue  !  As  homely,  you  mean," 
she  laughed.  "Now  aren't  you  ashamed  to 
ask  me  that  question  on  the  way  to  church  ?" 

"I  do  not  care  to  know  how  any  other 
woman  in  the  world  looks  but  you,"  he  went 
on  quietly.  "You  wouldn't  care,  child,  if  I 
ran  my  hand  over  your  face  ?" 

Her  big  brown  eyes  looked  at  him  in  as- 
tonishment. "Why  no,  Tem — if  it  pleases 
you." 

Almost  like  a  benediction  the  Blind  Man's 
165 


hand  fell  on  her  golden  brown  hair.  1  thought 
I  had  never  seen  so  sacred  a  touch. 

"  Why,  child,  it  is  glorious — glorious  hair. 
A  little  wavy,  too — kind  o'  curly — and  so  thick 
and  natural.  And  the  color  ?  Now  let  me  see 
— it  has  changed  some  since  you  were  a  tiny 
tot.  If  the  sun  shines  on  it  I'd  say  it  was 
auburn;  if  the  moonlight  kissed  it,  I'd  say  it 
was  dark.  But  in  the  daylight,  the  blessed, 
every -day  daylight,  I'd  say  it  was — glorious," 
and  he  laughed. 

"  Come,  hurry  up,  Tern,"  she  said ;  "  you'll 
have  me  so  vain  I'll  not  hear  a  word  of  the 
sermon." 

"  What  a  fine  brow,  Thesis.  I  knew  you'd 
have  that.  But  it's  broader  than  1  thought. 
You  are  slow  to  act,  but  you  never  change. 
And  if  you  once  love,  it  will  be  an  eternity 
thing  with  you. 

"Your  eyes?  There,  child,  they  have 
never  changed  at  all,  and  so  1  am  looking  into 
them  now,  as  I  did  long  ago.  Then,  even 
though  you  were  a  child,  I'd  watch  them 
sometimes  in  their  far-away  search  for  the 

angels,  looking  across  earth  and  sky,  reflect- 
166 


A  Smile  in  the  Dark 

ing  the  visions  they  were  seeing  in  a  fairer 
clime." 

"  O,  Tem  ;  do  hurry  up.  You  know  I  can- 
not see  into  other  worlds  any  more  than  you 
can." 

"  And  that  funny  little  nose — about  half  an 
inch  shorter  than  it  ought  to  be — and  turned 
up  just  a  little — that  hasn't  changed  either. 
I  am  looking  at  that.  It's  a  funny  little 
thing." 

Thesis  laughed.  "  Tem,  if  you  don't  stop 
making  fun  of  my  nose,  I'll — I'll  drop  you." 

"Just  like  a  woman,"  laughed  the  Blind 
Man ;  "  I've  praised  everything  but  your 
nose,  and  now  you  want  me  to  tell  a  fib  about 
that.  Start  into  praising  a  woman,  you'd 
better  go  the  whole  thing." 

Thesis  looked  at  him  a  mocking  grimace. 

He  was  silent  awhile,  silent  and  serious. 
Then  he  burst  out  in  his  impulsive  way, 

"And  your  mouth.  O,  Thesis,  that  little 
rainbow  mouth.  Child,  do  you  know  you 
haven't  kissed  me  in  a  mighty  long  time  ?" 

Thesis  burst  into  a  merry  laugh. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  sentimental  old  Terns ! 
167 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

Do  you  think  I  am  wearing  short  frocks  yet, 
Tem  ?" 

"  Aren't  you  ?"  asked  the  Blind  Man. 

"  Weil  I  wish  you  could  see.  Five  feet  and 
as  many  inches,  and  weighing  one  hundred 
and  thirty  pounds,"  she  said. 

"I  wish  I  could,  too,"  said  the  Blind  Man, 
with  inexpressible  sadness.  "  Just  to  see  you 
— just  to  see  you,  and  then  go  blind  again." 

"Nonsense,  Tem,"  she  laughed,  "you're 
acting  just  as  they  say  silly  people  do  in  love. 
Come  now,  stop  your  foolishness,  or  I'll  think 
you  are,  and  that  will  spoil  it  all." 

And  then  the  truth  flashed  over  the  Blind 
Man.  He  looked  up,  his  face  blanched,  his 
mouth,  for  a  moment,  was  hard  set,  and  his 
visionless  eyes  wore  the  look  of  Calvary. 

He  had  seen  the  maid  in  the  star,  and  the 
light  that  went  out  with  her  passing  was 
another  blindness  to  him — a  blinding  of  the 
blind. 

The  fight  lasted  just  a  moment.  But  it 
made  him  reel,  stagger,  and  almost  faint.  He 
clutched  her  hand  for  support. 

"  O,  Tem,  don't  squeeze  my  hand  so  !" 
168 


A  Smile  in  the  Dark 

The  Blind  Man  smiled  and  walked  slowly 
on. 

I  had  seen  that  smile  before.  It  was  on 
the  face  of  a  gallant  old  soldier,  who  had 
starved  to  death  in  prison.  He  had  not  seen 
his  beloved  for  two  years.  He  was  dying  in 
that  prison,  and  they  told  him  if  he  could  live 
to  get  home  he  might  go.  In  sight  of  the  old 
home  she  came  out  to  meet  him,  and  their  two 
boys  were  at  her  side. 

"  Oh,  I  am  at  home  and  well  again ;  well 
again,  beloved,"  he  cried. 

Then  he  held  out  his  arms,  smiled  and  died. 

And  that  smile  never  left  him — like  an  angel 
of  light,  sitting  triumphant  in  the  whitened 
halls  of  death,  aye,  even  on  the  Conqueror's 
own  throne,  and  proclaiming  that  there  be 
earthly  loves  which  build  their  temple  on  the 
stony  brow  of  Dissolution  itself. 


169 


THE  SORROWING  STARS. 

SWEET  is  the  thought,  that,  some  day 
I  shall  rest. 
Some  day  the  good,  glad  sun  will  rise 

Above  the  crest 
Of  billowed  hills  and  ocean  skies 

The  world  to  bless, 
But  it  will  greet  my  tired  eyes 
At  rest — sweet  rest. 

Sweet  is  the  thought,  that,  some  night 

I  shall  sleep — 
Some  night  the  sorrowing  stars  will  rise 

And  peep 
From  out  the  mother  skirt  of  nightly  skies— 

But  1  shall  weep 
Not  back  within  their  answering  eyes, 

For  I  shall  sleep. 


171 


CHAPTER  XII. 

I  SHALL  never  forget  the  night  I  called  and 
took  Bernice  her  ring. 

The  man  who  puts  a  ring  on  the  finger  of 
the  woman  he  is  going  to  marry,  and  does  not 
feel  a  happiness  he  has  never  felt  before,  is 
damned  to  begin  with.  ...  I  am  glad  I  do 
not  remember  all  that  occurred,  but  I  do  re- 
member this : 

"We  will  tell  Thesis,"  said  Bernice. 

She  came  out  just  before  I  left.  I  could  not 
tell  her,  and  I  hoped  Bernice  would  not.  But 
when  she  saw  the  ring,  it  went  through  her  as 
quickly  as  one  of  its  flashes  permeate  a  twi- 
light. She  came  quietly  over  to  my  side,  held 
out  her  hand  and  said  simply,  "  Good-by, 
Ned." 

"No,  no,  not  good-by,  but  good-night,"  I 
said,  and  I  stooped,  half  playfully,  to  give  her 
173 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

the  kiss  I  had  always  given.  Not  any  move- 
ment or  motion  of  hers  stopped  me. 

She  looked  at  me, — and  then  I  could  no 
more  have  kissed  her  than  I  could  have  pro- 
faned the  heavens  by  tossing  a  smoky  lantern 
into  the  night  and  calling  it  a  star.  It  was 
nearly  dark.  1  am  glad  it  was. 

I  sometimes  think  there  are  times  when 
every  man  considers,  more  or  less  seriously, 
the  problem  of  suicide.  That  night  in  my 
room  I  twirled  a  pistol  over  and  over  for  an 
hour,  as  I  sat  and  thought  in  my  despair. 

A  card  lay  on  my  table.  I  took  it  up  and 
read,  through  the  dying  breath  of  a  withering 
violet:  ".  .  .  .  not  as  the  world  giveth,  give 
1  unto  you.  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled, 
neither  let  it  be  afraid." 

I  went  to  my  window  and  threw  the  pistol 
across  the  lawn. 

Do  you  know  this  of  birds,  that  they  have 
their  favorite  hours  for  singing,  and  so  make 
one  unbroken  wave  of  music  around  the 
world  ?  Perhaps  Webster  was  thinking  of 
this  when  he  paid  that  tribute  to  the  English 
flag,  never  before  equaled  by  tribute  to  any 


The  Sorrowing  Stars 

flag  from  the  lips  of  man.  And  so  with 
birds. 

I  counted  them,  in  my  agony  of  despair,  as 
I  lay  awake  that  night.  At  half-past  one  a 
small  green  finch  awoke  near  my  window  and 
sang  his  simple  song.  Scarcely  was  he  through 
before  a  sleepless  mocking-bird,  poet-like, 
with  brain  so  full  of  fire  and  melody  he  could 
not  sleep,  began  a  faint  and  far-off  "  Mise- 
rere "  in  the  hush  of  a  half-veiled  moon.  A 
black-cap  caught  it  up — not  much  of  a  song, 
but  just  enough  to  appear  as  a  kind  of  an  ap- 
plause to  the  melody  of  the  mocking-bird.  It 
was  nearly  four  when  a  black-bird  piped  his 
merry  note,  to  be  followed  a  half  hour  later  by 
the  flute-like  notes  of  a  thrush,  and,  later 
still,  by  those  of  a  wren.  Then  came  a  spar- 
row, and  then  another  wren,  then  the  chaf- 
finches, and  then  the  linnets,  until  the  chirp 
and  whistle  of  a  lazy  lark  was  heard — really 
the  last  bird  to  find  that  the  sun  had  arisen. 
And  yet  the  world  holds  his  name  as  a  syno- 
nym of  sunup.  The  astonishing  thing  about 
the  world  is  what  it  does  not  know  about  itself. 

During  the  day  it  is  the  same,  one  bird 
'75 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

after  another  having  his  favorite  hour  for  sing- 
ing, and  not  ending  at  night,  as  is  generally 
supposed,  with  the  whippoorwill's  and  night- 
hawk's  cry,  but  with  the  song  of  waking 
birds  and  soulful  birds,  "following  the  sun 
and  keeping  company  with  the  hours,"  mak- 
ing one  unbroken  wave  of  melody  around  the 
world. 

Bernice  and  I  had  decided  there  need  be  no 
delay  in  our  wedding.  It  was  to  take  place 
the  next  month.  She  wished  to  go  to  Europe 
for  her  honeymoon.  Had  it  been  left  to  me  I 
should  never  have  decided  to  go  out  of  sight 
of  the  hills  of  Tennessee. 

I  thought  that  Miss  Cynthia  would  be  greatly 
surprised  when  I  told  her,  but  I  was  mistaken. 
She  looked  at  me  with  unusual  interest,  and 
a  merry  twinkle  shone  in  her  earnest  eyes. 
In  fact,  she  even  smiled.  This  was  all  so 
unusual  for  Miss  Cynthia  that  I  was  greatly 
surprised. 

"I  will  give  my  consent,"  she  said,  "if 
you  will  let  me  ask  you  one  more  question," 
then  she  looked  a  little  confused.  I  thought 

she  looked  twenty  years  younger. 
176 


The  Sorrowing  Stars 

"O,  that's  easily  earned/'  I  said.  She 
came  up  to  me  with  more  graciousness  than  I 
had  ever  seen  in  her  before.  She  crooked  her 
finger  in  my  button  hole,  and  so  held  me  fast. 

"  Now  will  you  not — will  you  not — "  she 
began. 

I  looked  down  on  Miss  Cynthia  with  a  puz- 
zled countenance,  1  know.  In  truth,  I  began 
to  be  interested  in  her. 

"Tell  me,"  she  went  on — "just  how  it — 
how  it — it,  you  know — "  Miss  Cynthia  was 
actually  blushing! — "how  it  affects — affects 
— people — that  is,  people  who — who " 

She  was  blushing  furiously.  And  in  that 
blush  her  whole  nature  was  transformed.  I 
saw  another  being  before  me — not  Miss  Cyn- 
thia, but  a  woman.  Not  the  old  maid  with 
silvery  hair  and  deep-set  indifferent  eyes, 
looking  aimlessly  future-ward  ;  but  a  woman 
whom  God  had  made  to  be  a  mother,  and 
therefore  happy.  There  was  a  light  in  her 
eyes,  the  first  I  had  ever  seen — a  smile  of  joy- 
ful fulfillment  on  her  lips — the  first  that  had 
ever  lingered  there.  It  changed  her  very  look 
• — her  very  nature.  Now  she  looked,  I  thought, 
«  177 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

so  dignified  and  distinguished  with  her  white 
hair  combed  gracefully  back  and  her  head 
carried  more  proudly  than  I  had  ever  seen  it 
before — it  had  always  been  humble  enough. 
And  her  face, — before,  so  pale  and  listless  the 
light  that  fell  there!  Now,  it  fell  like  the 
crimson  blush  of  the  dying  day,  turning  the 
twilight  of  its  life  into  the  memory  of  a  morn- 
ing. 

Miss  Cynthia  was  positively  lovely.  O 
holy  ray  of  love,  that  can  turn  the  petals  of  a 
withering  lily  into  rose-leaves  of  light ! 

"You  see,"  she  blushed  and  went  on — 
"you  see,  Ned " 

"Miss  Cynthia,"  I  smiled,  "  I  see  you  are 
in  love." 

Then  for  all  the  world  I  would  not  have 
said  it.  For  a  moment  she  looked  at  me  in  a 
pitiful,  hurt  way.  Then  she  burst  into  tears. 

I  think  they  were  the  first  she  had  ever 
shed  in  that  way, — the  first  that  had  ever 
come  into  her  poor  unsatisfied  life — her  life  of 
duty,  of  trial  borne  alone,  of  a  yearning  for 
love  and  sympathy  which  never  came,  of  see- 
ing only  the  present,  of  knowing  no  future. 
178 


The  Sorrowing  Stars 

They  touched  me  so,  I  could  do  nothing 
but  slip  away  to  the  barn.  And  yet  I  would 
have  given  much  just  to  have  sat  down  by 
her  and  wept  too. 

But  at  the  barn  I  was  greatly  touched.  I 
had  stopped  to  pet  Marjorie  as  she  thrust  her 
shapely  head  out  of  her  stall.  Then  I  looked 
up  and  missed  the  picture  that  had  always 
hung  there.  The  old  man  noticed  it  and  said, 

"She  ain't  dar,  no  mo',  sah  !  dun  tuck 
Little  Glory  down  to  my  cabin,  an'  dar  she 
gwine  stay  as  long  as  I  lib.  I'll  nurver  desert 
her — no,  sah!" 

They  were  simple  words,  but  the  old  man 
will  never  know  how  they  touched  me. 

****** 

"  1  would  not  try  to  drive  him  to-day,"  said 
the  trainer.  "  Marjorie  needs  her  work.  If 
you  will  drive  for  exercise  on  your  wedding 
morning,"  he  laughed,  "  drive  something  that 
is  safe." 

"Why  not?"  I  asked,  as  I  stood  and 
looked  at  them  put  on  the  boots  and  the  finish- 
ing touches  to  the  great  black  giant,  in  silken 

sheen  and  glossy  coat,  who  stood  nervously 
179 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

grinding  his  bit,  in  keen  anticipation  of  the 
few  swift  heats  that  awaited  him. 

"  He'll  be  rank  and  ugly  to-day,"  went  on 
the  trainer.  "  It  has  rained  so  he  hasn't  had 
his  work  for  a  week.  I  weigh  two  hundred 
and  am  strong  as  most  men,  but  he  han- 
dled me  in  the  backstretch  that  day  as  if  I  had 
been  a  babe."  Then  he  added  seriously, 
"  He  is  not  a  gentleman's  horse  to-day,  sir." 

"  That  is  why  I  shall  drive  him,"  I  said, 
recklessly.  And  the  next  instant  I  had 
jumped  into  the  toy  thing  of  steel  and  hickory 
which  glided  on  air  and  rubber  behind  the 
great  horse's  heels.  A  darky  ran  by  his  side 
and  snapped  the  overcheck,  and  as  we  reached 
the  track  I  saw,  by  the  way  the  big  horse  went 
up  against  the  bit  and  nervously  fought  for 
his  head,  that  he  expected  a  battle  with  me. 

Twice  around  the  track  we  went,  until  he 
was  keyed  to  his  speed  and  lithe  as  a  hickory 
withe.  Then  1  turned  him  about  and  gave 
him  his  head  for  a  fast  mile. 

At  the  half  he  went  off  his  feet  and  plunged 
madly. 

"  They  will  never  know  it  was  not  an  acci- 
180 


The  Sorrowing  Stars 

dent,"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  cut  him  with 
a  whip  that  fell  like  a  blade  of  fire.  I  knew 
what  was  coming — I  admired  him  the  more 
for  it. 

For  an  instant  he  quivered  from  heel  to 
head  at  the  indignity  of  the  insult.  Then  he 
reared  upward  as  though  he  would  leap  to  the 
stars  if  the  bit  was  out  of  his  mouth,  and 
the  next  instant  he  fell  backward  upon  me. 
It  seemed  to  me  a  black  meteorite  struck  my 
head.  .  .  . 

There  were  fantastic  dreams  I  had,  and 
then  it  seemed  that  eons  and  eons  of  time 
went  by,  when,  try  as  I  would,  I  could  not 
know,  and  if  I  did  know,  it  was  only  enough 
to  assure  me  in  a  shadowy  sort  of  a  way  that  I 
was  not  knowing.  Someone  was  holding  my 
head  as  in  a  vise. 

Night — was  the  world  in  chaos  again, — and 
the  day,  would  it  never  come  ?  It  came  and 
went — light,  darkness,  day — but  days  of  only 
second's  time.  "  I  understand  how  eternity 
is  now,"  I  thought  once  between  the  darkness 
and  the  daylight — "  they  are  days  of  second's 
time  with  God." 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

Day — -and  a  tall  and  very  beautiful  creature 
was  silently  looking  at  me  and  assisting 
around  the  room. 

Day  again — flickering  and  full  of  twilight, 
and  the  man  with  instruments  said,  after  it 
seemed  to  me  he  had  encased  me  in  a  solid 
rock,  "  I  love  the  boy,  but  I  hope  he  will  die. 
Paralyzed  for  life  on  one  side,  and  his  mind 
will  probably  go  with  it." 

Then  I  knew  the  man  who  had  been  hold- 
ing my  head  was  .blind,  because  he  said,  "  He 
shall  not  die  if  I  can  save  him.  I  wish  I  could 
see  you  again,  Ned,  my  boy." 

He  was  holding  my  head  when  he  said  it, 
and  I  tried  to  speak,  but  1  could  not.  Then  I 
tried  to  press  his  hand  to  let  him  know  I  un- 
derstood, but  I  could  not.  Then  I  knew  what 
it  was  to  be  paralyzed. 

The  man  with  the  instruments  came  over 
and  wrung  the  Blind  Man's  hand  and  said,  in 
his  bluff  way,  "  Damn  it,  Emerson,  you  are 
a  trump — a  regular  trump.  I'll  swear  I  don't 
see  how  you  stood  it.  Do  you  know  you 
and  that  old  darky  have  held  that  boy's 

head   there,  held   that   nearly  fractured  ver- 
182 


The  Sorrowing  Stars 

tebra  together  for  ten  days  ?  If  you  had 
turned  it  loose,  he  would  have  died  in  an 
hour." 

"Sh-h-h-h!"  whispered  the  Blind  Man. 
"  Isn't  he  taking  more  interest  in  things  ?" 

I  felt  his  hand  go  over  my  face  in  a  gentle, 
sensitive  touch. 

"  You  needn't  bother  about  holding  it  any 
longer,"  went  on  the  other.  "  If  he  can  live 
ten  days  with  that  fracture,  the  plaster  of 
Paris  will  do  the  rest  now.  But,  damn  me, 
Emerson,— you  and  that  old  darky  1" 

Day  again,  shadowy  and  sweet,  and  the 
tall  and  beautiful  form.  Dreams  of  fields  and 
flowers,  of  a  wood-thrush  singing  above  a 
sleeping  herd.  .  .  .  Then  winter  chilling 
everything,  killing  the  wood-thrush,  killing 
the  flowers.  Blast  after  blast  of  winter — 
spasm  after  spasm  of  chill. 

"This  is  death,"  I  thought  to  myself. 

And  then  some  one  bent  over  me — some 
/  one  tail  and  graceful.  I  should  have  known 
better,  but  it  seemed  I  had  seen  the  eyes  be- 
fore. It  was  night,  and  the  moon  was  shining 
on  them,  and  I  saw  the  battle  there — and  the 
183 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

little  locket.  And  then  I  could  speak  for  the 
first  time. 

"No,  no,  Thesis,  darling, — not  good-by,  but 
good-night.  Oh,  love !  Oh,  Thesis,  will  you 
forgive  me  ?" 

Then  the  Blind  Man's  voice,  "  He  does  not 
know  what  he  is  saying,  Miss  Bernice." 

Day, — but  the  tall  and  beautiful  form  never 
came  again. 

I  remember  that  one  night  my  mind  sud- 
denly seemed  as  transparent  as  glass.  As  one 
who  awakens  from  a  great  sleep,  it  took  on 
a  keenness,  an  acuteness  which  was  painful  in 
its  intensity.  There  is  a  great  thought  in  such 
an  awakening.  How  keen,  how  acute  the 
mind  !  How  the  whole  soul  quivers  as  the  first 
sensations  of  thought  creep  over  it.  And  the 
longer  and  more  profound  the  sleep,  the  more 
sensitive  the  awakening.  Aye,  at  the  real 
Great  Awakening,  after  eons  of  sleep,  how 
sensitive  will  the  soul  be— how  keenly  will  it 
see  the  difference  between  right  and  wrong ! 
What  can  keep  it  from  being  its  own  judge  ? 

It  was  past  midnight  by  the  great  clock 
in  the  corner  when  I  awoke,  fully  and  corn- 
184 


The  Sorrowing  Stars 

pletely  in  possession  of  my  senses  again—- 
and yet  I  awoke  with  a  start  and  a  sense  of 
impending  danger.  The  Blind  Man  was 
asleep,  bolt  upright  in  a  chair.  Old  Wash 
was  asleep  on  a  rug  at  my  door.  The  light 
had  gone  out,  but  a  bright  moon  shone  full  in 
my  window,  and  its  white  beams  played  like 
noiseless  ghosts  upon  the  floor.  Did  you 
never  have  such  an  awakening  in  the  small 
hours  of  the  night  ? 

The  world  is  still,  your  heart  beats  low  and 
quiet.  Not  a  sound  is  heard.  Not  a  being  is 
awake  but  your  soul  and  yourself,  and  you 
find  your  Conscience  sitting  in  solemn  judg- 
ment on  yourself.  How  strange  it  is  that  this 
small  voice  will  never  cease ;  even  in  dreams 
it  tells  which  are  right  and  which  are  wrong. 
And  now  it  seems  to  have  awakened  you  that 
it  might  talk  to  you  while  all  is  still,  and  no 
one  to  listen,  or  interfere  to  change  the  solemn 
proceedings  of  its  tribunal. 

How  little  then  become  your  wildest  dreams 
of  wealth,  or  glory,  or  honor,  or  fame.  How 
less  than  little  become  your  flashes  of  passion 
or  frets  of  daily  annoyance  or  clamorings  for 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

imaginary  rights  or  bickerings  for  self !  How 
small  even  appear  the  few  good  deeds  you 
have  done,  compared  with  the  solid  mountains 
of  those  across  whose  sides  you  might  write, 
"  My  mountain  of  good  intentions." 

You  shut  your  eyes  again  only  to  face  the 
clear  painful  silence,  the  calm  still  inexorable 
judge,  the  deep  reality  of  life,  and  the  deeper 
reality  of  death.  Then  it  is  that  you  see  life 
as  it  is,  shorn  of  every  folly  and  false  idea, 
but  a  plaything  you  have  toyed  with.  Then 
it  is  that  you  see  your  soul  as  it  is, — no  longer 
do  you  doubt  it — for  it  cuts  you  as  a  keen 
razor  the  hands  of  a  child.  And  then  you  see 
death  as  it  is,  its  eternal  calmness  and  still- 
ness, its  hushing  of  all  earthly  vanities  and 
silencing  of  all  earthly  conceits.  And  it  shows 
you  yourself  as  you  are — a  tremulous  sapling 
among  oaks,  a  speck  of  clay  among  planets 
and  suns. 

And  so  in  the  sudden  clearing  of  mental 
vision  I  lay  that  night  for  awhile  thinking  over 
my  past  life — thinking  and  judging  until  the 
whirl  of  emotion  was  too  much  to  bear,  and  1 

sank  again  into  blessed  unconsciousness. 
1 86 


The  Sorrowing  Stars 

But  one  day  I  heard,  in  a  dazed  sort  of  a 
way,  the  Blind  Man  telling  some  one  that 
some  one  else  must  be  brought,  that  a  great 
mistake  had  been  made  and  the  other  one  had 
gone  to  Europe.  And  then  I  heard  him  dis- 
tinctly say, 

"  God  never  made  but  one  like  her.  Why, 
she  loved  him  all  the  time,  but  sacrificed  it  for 
another's  sake.  She  will  do  what  I  ask  her. 
I'll  bring  her  to-morrow." 

The  person  he  was  talking  to  went  out. 
Then  he  sat  down  by  my  side,  took  my  hand 
and  said,  softly,  for  he  did  not  know  I  was 
conscious, 

"  Oh,  Ned  !  Ned  !  To  have  won  the  love 
you  have !  God  bless  you  both."  There 
was  nobody  else  in  the  room,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life  I  saw  him  bend  his  head 
and  weep. 

The  next  day  there  came  a  vision  brighter 
than  the  sun.  I  knew  she  was  there,  though 
1  could  not  quite  understand.  My  mind  was 
wandering  when  I  first  saw  the  vision.  There 
was  a  boat  and  a  man  in  it,  light  and  light- 
ning, troops  and  troops  of  beasts  and  soldiers. 
187 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

Then  things  grew  calmer,  and  I  heard  dis- 
tinctly the  song  of  a  cat-bird,  just  out  of  my 
window,  and  a  great  wave  of  happiness  swept 
through  and  over  me. 

"  If  I  can  hear  him  through  without  forget- 
ting," I  said  to  myself,  "I'll  know  I  am  alive 
again — that  day  has  come  to  stay  and  night 
cannot  claim  me  any  more." 

Never  did  I  listen  with  more  intensity.  The 
song  went  on.  I  heard  it — I  heard  it !  I 
could  scarcely  believe — I  saw,  I  heard  ! 

The  sunlight  flooded  my  room.  The  win- 
dow was  up.  There  sat  the  Blind  Man,  hold- 
ing my  hand.  Miss  Cynthia  was  embroider- 
ing in  a  corner.  1  heard  a  colt  whicker  across 
the  lawn.  Never  had  I  heard  such  sweet- 
ness. 

And  the  cat-bird  sang  on. 

He  sang  of  love  and  life,  of  hope  that  sits 
enthroned  in  happy  hearts,  of  nesting  times, 
trilling,  trilling  up  to  the  happy  stars. 

I  raised  my  eyes  and  looked  up  —  into 
the  eyes  of  Thesis, 

She  had  slipped  in,  and  stood   beside  the 

Blind   Man,  and  was  looking   down   on  me. 
188 


The  Sorrowing  Stars 

She  saw  the  conscious  rapture  that  swept  over 
me  when  I  recognized  her.  She  read  all  the 
love  and  suffering  that  was  in  my  eyes — that 
I  was  about  to  speak — and  then  she  knelt 
down  quickly,  threw  her  arms  around  my 
neck,  kissed  me  and  said,  "  Hush,  hush,  dear 
heart !  I  understand." 

I  saw  the  Blind  Man  wince,  there  was  a 
momentary  struggle  with  myself  and  then  I 
saw  myself  as  I  never  had — my  cowardice, 
my  pride.  And  now  must  I,  a  wreck  and 
cripple  for  life,  set  the  seal  of  my  selfishness 
by  accepting  this  love  when  I  had  nothing  to 
give  in  return  ? 

Only  God  knew  the  agony  it  cost  me,  when 
1  turned  my  face  to  the  wall. 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment  in  startled 
shame,  then  fled  weeping  from  the  room. 

The  Blind  Man  came  over  to  my  bedside. 
He  was  so  agitated  he  could  scarcely  speak. 

"Ned,  I  know  men  who  would  die  to  have 
what  you  have  thrown  away." 


189 


THE  RECOMPENSE. 

WE  never  give,  but  giving,  get  again — 
There  is  no  burden  that  we  may  not 

bear — 

Our  sweetest  love  is  always  sweetest  pain — 
And  yet  the  recompense,  the  recompense  is 
there. 

Who  weeps,  yet  worships  some  sweet  silent 

star 
E'en  through  his  tears  shall  catch  uplifting 

light— 

We  grow  to  what  our  aspirations  are — 
Look  up,  O  Soul,  and  be  a  star  to-night. 

Who  pours  his  heart  out  to  some  flower  rare 
On  scaleless  cliff  above  a  sailless  sea, 

Shall  drink  its  perfume,  if  he  linger  there, 
Until  his  very  soul  that  flower  shall  be. 

Who  bares  his  head  where  God's  star-altars 

rise 

191 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

And  strives  to  probe  with  prayer  their  mys- 
tery, 

Even  with  the  act  claims  kindred  with  the 
skies — 

We  are  the  Wish  of  all  we  will  to  be. 

Who  loves  his  love  through  death  and  riftless 
ruth 

Yet  ne'er  shall  clasp  and  kiss  her  in  his  leal 
Shall  wedded  be  in  spirit  and  in  truth — 

We  are  the  Deed  of  all  we  think  and  feel. 

We  never  give,  but,  giving,  get  again — 
There  is  no  burden  that  we  may  not  bear — 

Our  sweetest  love  is  always  sweetest  pain, 
And  yet  the  recompense,  the  recompense  is 
there. 


192 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

A  FFLICTION  is  the  lightning  that  clears 
/~V  the  sky  of  our  life.  After  it,  comes  the 
ozone  of  clearer  seeing,  of  healthier  living. 

The  Blind  Man  was  my  greatest  comforter. 
He  never  left  me — he  and  old  Wash.  It 
touched  me  greatly  to  see  them  always  around 
me,  day  and  night,  always  cheerful  and  so 
always  cheering  me.  For  our  lives  are  mani- 
fold, not  single.  What  we  live  often  decides 
what  others  shall  live. 

And  old  Wash — it  was  pathetic  to  see  how 
interesting  he  tried  to  be. 

"I  tell  you,  Ned,"  laughed  the  Blind  Man 
one  day,  "you  and  I  will  be  greater  chums 
than  ever.  You  cannot  walk  and  I  cannot 
see.  So  I  will  carry  you  and  you  shall  see  for 
me." 

Cannot  walk  !  I  had  not  thought  of  it  in 
all  its  subtle,  excruciating  keenness  before.  I, 
13  193 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

who  so  loved  to  walk.  No  more  to  go  into  the 
fields,  to  see  the  sweet  things  of  nature,  to 
study  the  birds.  To  lie  here  a  helpless  cripple 
in  a  world  of  action — I,  who  had  been  so 
active. 

This  had  been  my  life.  Now  God  had 
turned  it  right  about.  The  old,  full  life  must 
go, — go  with  all  its  strength  and  manhood,  go 
with  all  its  dreams,  go — and  with  it — Thesis. 

The  Blind  Man's  hand  was  on  my  brow.  I 
held  it  and  kissed  it.  Then  I  shed  tears,  the 
first  in  many  years. 

But  old  Wash  looked  at  us  both  in  his  funny, 
philosophical  way,  winked  at  me  and  said, 

"  G'way  frum  heah,  wid  all  dat  grave-yard 
talk.  I've  seed  game  hosses  break  down 
befo'.  All  you  need  is  a  rest,  an'  den  a  run 
on  blue-grass.  Lor',  ef  de  sperrit's  dar,  de  legs 
Ml  follow." 

Then  he'd  slip  out  and  bring  Marjorie  up, 
hooked  and  booted,  and  let  me  see  her  go  a 
bit  across  the  green.  It  would  end  in  his  driv- 
ing her  to  my  window,  where  I'd  give  her  the 
lump  of  sugar  1  always  kept  for  her.  The  old 

man  would  sit  in  the  sulky  with  all  the  dignity 
194 


The  Recompense 

of  a  great  driver.  He  would  gravely  fleck  his 
whip  and  look  positive  and  sure.  Then  he'd 
wink  at  me  again  as  he  drove  off  and  say, 

"  It's  betwixt  grass-time  and  hay-time  wid 
you  now,  an'  kinder  blue,  to-be-sho',  but  befo' 
de  snow  flies  agin,  jes'  see  ef  I  don't  hab  you 
up  an'  drivin'  dis  very  filly." 

1  did  not  hear  anything  about  Thesis.  I 
knew  she  was  teaching  a  music  class  in  Nash- 
ville. The  Blind  Man  told  me  that  much. 

One  day — it  seemed  a  long  time,  because  I 
could  do  nothing  but  watch  the  days  come  and 
go — I  dictated  a  letter  to  Bernice.  She  was 
in  Europe,  and  I  had  heard  how  her  great 
beauty  had  attracted  all.  Her  reply  came 
promptly.  It  was  what  I  had  expected,  and 
all  I  had  wished.  It  was  of  many  pages  and 
fulsome  and  complete. — My  ring  came  with  it. 
She  did  not  say  it  in  so  many  words,  but 
between  the  lines  1  read, 

"Marriage  is  a  civil  contract  and  one  in 
which  each  contracting  party  should  have 
value  received.  I  am  sorry  for  you  and  so — 
good -by." 

That  night  I  slept  with  another  envelope 
'95 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

under  my  pillow.  It  was  not  even  sealed, 
and  contained  only  the  programme  of  a  music 
recital,  directed  to  me  in  a  well-known  hand- 
writing. Down  in  one  corner  was  signed, 
simply, — "  Thesis." 

But  it  seemed  that  all  life  and  hope  came 
back  to  me  that  night.  For  the  first  time  in 
weeks  I  wanted  to  live.  Then  all  the  old 
fire  and  ambition  of  life  came  back,  and  I  re- 
solved to  live. 

When  the  Blind  Man  came  in  he  must  have 
noticed  the  difference  in  me,  for  he  said, 

"That's  right,  Ned.  Resolution  is  half  the 
battle."  Then  he  went  on, 

"  Do  you  know  I  wrote  a  poem  once  ?  Not 
much  of  a  poem,  perhaps,  but  it  was  the  day 
after  I  knew  I  was  blind,  and  it  all  came  over 
me  so.  I  had  to  write  this  to  keep  from  giving 
up." 

He  walked  over  to  my  bedside  and  drew  out 
a  worn  manuscript  of  three  pages  from  his 
pocket.  Across  it  were  scribbled  some  lines 
running  in  all  directions,  for  there  was  no  light 
behind  the  hand  that  guided  them.  The 

pathos  of  it  brought  tears  to  my  eyes. 
196 


The  Recompense 

"I  wrote  that  poem,"  he  said,  "the  first 
and  the  only  one  I  shall  ever  write.  Poems  are 
born  in  one,  not  made,  and  each  is  a  different 
birth — the  birth  of  a  soul.  For  if  they  come 
from  the  soul  they  must  be  part  of  it.  Real 
poets  have  these  soul-births  often,  and  so  give 
to  the  world  these  many  children  of  their 
genius.  But  all  of  us — the  most  insignificant 
and  unpoetic  of  us — have  them  once,  at  least, 
in  a  life-time.  We  may  not  even  give  it  birth, 
and  it  may  die  between  a  sob  and  a  shout.  It 
may  be  only  a  memory,  the  shadow  of  a  linger- 
ing, the  vision  of  a  regret,  the  dim  recollection  of 
something  we  cannot  even  remember,  but  it  will 
come  to  sweeten  and  touch  us— to  be  ours." 

He  was  silent  a  while,  then  he  said,  "  When 
the  light  went  out  of  my  life  this  was  born  to 
me.  And  it  has  been  my  inspiration  ever 
since." 

I  took  the  manuscript  and  read  aloud  : 

SUCCESS. 

"  'Tis  the  coward  who  quits  to  misfortune — 
'Tis  the  knave  who  changes  each  day,— 
'Tis  the  fool  who  wins  half  of  the  battle, 
Then  throws  all  his  chances  away. 


A  Summer  riymnal 

"  There  is  little  in  life  but  labor, 

And  to-morrow  may  find  that  a  dream, — 
Success  is  the  bride  of  Endeavor, 
And  Luck  but  a  meteor's  gleam. 

"  The  time  to  succeed  is,  when  others, 

Discouraged,  show  traces  of  tire, — 
The  battle  is  fought  in  the  homestretch, 
And  won— 'twixt  the  flag  and  the  wire." 

I  knew  then  why  the  Blind  Man  was  so 
brave. 

But  despite  my  resolution,  the  weeks  passed 
wearily,  and  still  I  lay  helpless  and  broken- 
spirited.  Had  it  not  been  for  my  love  of  birds 
and  their  visits  to  me  then, — in  the  trees 
around  my  windows,  down  in  the  grass  by 
the  house,  singing,  chirping,  cheering  me, — 1 
think  I  should  have  died  or  given  up.  For  try 
as  I  would,  I  could  barely  lift  my  head,  and  not 
at  all  either  of  my  limbs  on  one  side.  I  be- 
lieve the  birds  knew  it  and  sent  word  to  all  the 
other  birds,  from  the  way  they  seemed  to  as- 
semble and  sing  around  my  window. 

1  do  not  think  I  ever  should  have  gotten  up 
at  all,  if  old  Wash  had  not  come  in  one  day, 

picked  me  up  and  set  me  in  a  big  chair  by  the 
198 


The  Recompense 

window,  in  my  dressing  gown  and  slippers. 
How  sweet  the  fields  looked  !  How  like  old 
friends  the  hills  that  stretched  along  the  Mount 
Pleasant  country  !  I  felt  as  if  they  were  wel- 
coming me  up,  and  from  their  great  sturdy 
sides  and  everlasting,  never-changing  sum- 
mits, I  drew  in  again  the  spirit  of  their  souls. 
How  beautiful  it  was,  how,  calm  and  trustful 
and  true  ! 

In  the  great  sweetness  of  it  all  there  burst 
suddenly  on  me  a  flood  of  the  richest  melody. 
I  could  hear  it,  but  I  could  not  see  the  mu- 
sician. It  seemed  to  come  from  everywhere 
— I  knew  the  singer  who  gave  it  forth,  and 
the  white  oak  tree  he  was  in,  but  the  mocking- 
bird, like  all  true  singers,  is  so  unpretentious 
in  his  make-up,  and  so  near  the  color  of  nature 
generally,  that  I  could  scarcely  tell  him  from 
the  big  honest  limb  he  was  sitting  on.  But  I 
knew  well  enough,  too,  why  his  music  seemed 
to  come  from  everywhere — he  draws  it  from 
everywhere,  and  he  never  pours  it  out  twice 
in  the  same  direction. 

Oh,  he  is  the  true  singer !    Watch  him  just 

a  moment  and  see,  while  his  little  gray  throat 
199 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

swells  and  puffs  and  rolls  like  miniature  bil- 
lows, and  his  flashing  eyes,  "  in  a  fine  frenzy 
rolling,"  dart  about  here  and  there,  now  at 
the  earth,  and  now  at  the  heaven  above  him, 
notice  how  his  little  head  moves  from  side  to 
side,  pouring  his  song  in  every  direction  and 
varying  it  to  suit  every  new  and  beautiful 
sight  that  flashes  across  the  threshold  of  the 
tiny  chambers  in  his  eyes.  It  is  almost  comical 
to  see  how  earnest  he  is — not  merely  to  sing, 
but  to  sing  some  new  thing.  And  so  he  takes 
in  both  Earth  and  Heaven,  and  involuntarily 
pours  out  the  impression  that  he  sees. 

"You  are  the  true  poet/'  I  said,  as  my 
heart  swelled  up  at  the  lesson  he  was  teach- 
ing me — "  You  are  the  true  singer.  Spring 
has  been  glorious,  but  it  has  passed  now,  and 
you  are  not  to  sing  of  spring  until  your  song 
becomes  a  spring  joke  among  the  other  birds. 
The  heavens  are  blue,  but  you  don't  dwell  on 
them  always.  The  fields  are  green  and  sun- 
shiny and  beautiful,  but  only  a  glint  of  them 
has  crept  into  your  music.  Your  mate  died  in 
the  terrible  freeze  of  last  winter  and  that  ten- 
der flutter  of  crape  in  your  song  is  just  enough 
200 


The  Recompense 

to  draw  me  to  you.  Had  you  hung  out  your 
black  flag,  as  some  folks  do  who  imagine  they 
are  mourning  thereby  for  the  dead,  or  poured 
your  misery  between  me  and  the  sunshine,  I 
would  shut  my  ears  and  tell  you  to  go  and 
mate  with  a  black-bird." 

But  oh,  what  a  singer  you  are  !  A  little  of 
the  fields,  a  June  waft  from  the  air,  a  glint 
from  the  sunshine  and  a  gleam  from  the  skies. 
A  memory  of  a  dead  love,  a  quaint  shaft  of 
musical  satire,  a  withering  take-off  on  some 
cat-bird,  who  thinks  he  too  is  a  singer  and  has 
tried  to  imitate  you,  and  a  jolly  laugh  at  the 
foibles  of  man.  Twinkles,  jests,  raptures, 
dreams ;  dances,  song,  brooks,  flowers ;  ser- 
mons, poems,  music,  stars — and  all,  all  of  it, 
— heaven  ! 

The  sweetness  and  beauty  of  it  all  came 
over  me.  1  felt  that,  to  me,  no  more  were  to 
be  the  fields  and  the  birds  and  the  sweet 
things  of  nature,  and  yet  I  was  never  so 
happy.  For  I  thought  of  Thesis  and  her  love 
for  me,  and  out  of  the  night  of  my  sorrow 
there  arose  and  shone  the  sweet  star  of  my 
recompense. 

201 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

But  one  day,  when  the  Blind  Man  came 
into  my  room,  he  wore  a  strange  and  troubled 
look. 

"Ned,"  he  said,  "I  fear  the  devil  is  to  pay 
with  Colonel  Philips." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  said,  "for  you  know 
1  do  not  hear  much  that  is  going  on."  The 
Blind  Man  thought  awhile,  and  then  he  brought 
his  fist  down  in  a  way  that  is  not  at  all  like 
him,  except  when  he  is  very  greatly  in  earn- 
est. 

"  If  there  is  a  villain  unhung,"  he  said  after 
a  while,  "it  is  Joe  Forde.  I  believe,  Ned,  he 
is  at  the  bottom  of  a  scheme  that  is  going  to 
wreck  Colonel  Philips — wreck  him  from  land 
to  life.  His  home  has  been  deeded  to  Forde, 
and  I  learn  that  all  the  old  man's  bank  stock 
went  with  it." 

I  tried  to  rise  in  my  bed,  so  great  was  my 
astonishment. 

"What  does  this  mean  ?"  I  asked,  as  a  ter- 
rible suspicion  went  through  my  mind. 

"It  means,"  said  the  Blind  Man,  springing 
up  in  excitement  that  was  not  natural  to  him 
— "it  means" — then  he  stopped  short,  came 

202 


The  Recompense 

over  to  my  chair,  seized  me  eagerly  by  the 
hand,  and  said,  "Ned,  my  boy,  you  must  get 
up  from  there,  and  get  up  quick.  I  am  going 
to  need  you,  and  need  you  badly.  No  living 
man  can  help  me  but  you  ;  and  a  life,  aye,  two 
lives  are  at  stake." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  she " 

1  tried  to  get  up,  but  fell  back, — power- 
less. 1  could  not  even  finish  the  thought  that 
rushed  through  my  brain.  Nor  could  the 
Blind  Man  hear  me  out.  He  turned  and  left 
the  room.  But  as  he  left,  I  saw  an  expression 
on  his  face  I  had  never  seen  before.  I  knew 
then  that  the  Blind  Man,  when  aroused,  was  a 
dangerous  enemy. 


•10.3 


THE  DREAM  OF  A  MELODY. 

O,  LET  me  sit  and  listen — nay,  not  speak — 
No  unanointed  sound  shall  enter  here, 
Nor  uninvited  guest  of  discord  seek 

To  break  the  sweet  communion. — Love,  Hear 
Scarcely  to  breathe,  lest  I  might  shake 
Too  soon  from  starry  bowers 
The  music  blooms  that  hang  above  this  lake 
Of  flowers. 

That  hang  above  or  float  through  wind-blown 

wood, 

Faint,  blended  sounds  of  mist  and  melody — 
Echoes  of  heart-aches,  dreams  not  understood 

Till  death  shall  read  for  each  the  mystery. 
Sobs  from  the  Silent  Land — memory  of  mother 
eyes 

Caught  in  lambent  ray  of  love, 
As  earth-lakes  catch  the  glory  of  the  skies 
From  those  above, 
aos 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

Tone-dreams  stealing  through  the  garden  of 

the  mind, 

Chord-rays  blending  in  a  blaze  of  harmony — 
A  thought — a    touch — and   lo!    the   list'ning 

wind 
Leaps  from  the  stars  and  mantles  earth  with 

melody. 
For  every  dream  we  waft  up  to  the  sky 

Through  blight  and  bar, 
Down  here,  tho'  but  the  echo  of  a  sigh, 
Up  there — a  star. 

Light — light—light — and  the  breaking  dawn 

Shall  purple  yet  the  midnight  of  our  dream. 
We  live  in  thought  here — yonder,  in  a  morn 
Whose  sun  is  sound  and   mellow  music's 

beam, 

Whose  nights  are  notes  of  singing  stars  that 
roll 

In  chords  around, 

Until  is  wed  the  concord  of  our  soul 
To  that  of  sound. 

Light — light — light — and  the  Minor's  wail 
Shall  sound  not  down  the  key-board  of  our 

heart, 

206 


The  Dream  of  a  Melody 

For  hope  shall  tear  with  Major  hands  the  veil 
And  turn  our  sobs  to  flute-notes  ere  they 

start. 

And  every  song  that  Sorrow's  lips  have  sung 
Through  hot  tears  mute, 

Shall  fall  back  laughing  in  our  lap,  and  flung 
Like  ripened  fruit. 

Then  dream  and  weep  and  weep  and  dream 

again, 
And  tell  in  touch  what  may   not  be  by 

tongue : 

Our  loftiest  notes  yet  in  our  lutes  remain — 
Our  sweetest  songs  have  never  yet  been 

sung. 
No  dream  is  lost — no  vision  e'er  will  die — 

From  star  to  star, 

We  step  across  the  threshold  of  the  sky 
To  worlds  afar. 


207 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  love  of  woman  surpasses  that  of  man. 
It  is  the  one  divine  thing  of  earth — the 
thing  in  it  that  is  of  Heaven  and  has  its  birth 
among  the  stars.  And  as  a  woman  has  only 
one  soul,  so  can  she  have  only  one  love. 
Often,  indeed,  that  soul  lives,  and,  like  some 
pure  white  single  star,  passes  from  morn  to 
noon,  and  from  noon  into  its  twilight,  and  finds 
no  companion-love  to  go  with  it.  But  think  you 
not  it  is  mateless.  For  the  Jove  is  there,  and 
the  divinity  of  such  a  love  can  find  its  counter- 
part only  among  the  stars. 

No  one's  music  appealed  to  me  as  did  that 
of  Thesis.  Her's  alone  seemed  to  satisfy  all 
that  was  musical  within  me.  I  hold  this  of 
music  as  of  poetry — that  every  one  has  one 
melody  within  and  which  is  his  very  own.  Who 
touches  it  touches  all  that  is  musical  in  his 

nature.    Sometimes  it  is  a  grand  strain  ;  often 
14  209 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

it  is  a  simple  childhood  tune.  But  the  one 
touches  as  completely  as  the  other.  When 
the  bud  bursts  and  the  perfume  comes,  it  mat- 
ters not  whether  the  rose  is  the  cultured  flower 
of  the  hot-house  or  the  wild  one  that  blooms 
over  the  wayside  fence.  Each  gives  all  it  has, 
and  the  rest  depends  on  him  who  plucks  it. 

And  so  there  was  that  about  Thesis'  play- 
ing which  satisfied  all  that  was  musical  within 
me.  As  the  days  passed  I  thought  of  her  more 
and  more.  I  longed  for  her  with  an  inex- 
pressible, a  painful  longing.  The  road  over 
the  hills,  as  I  looked  at  it  from  my  window, 
became  a  sacred  thing  to  me,  because  she  once 
had  passed  over  it.  Yonder  by  the  garden  gate 
she  once  stood — I  could  have  knelt  and  kissed 
the  spot.  That  white-oak — she  once  said  it 
was  beautiful ;  to  me  it  was  now  divine. 

The  days  passed.  .Her  name  was  too  sacred 
for  me  to  speak  to  others,  and  so  no  one  spoke 
it  to  me. 

But  one  day  I  noticed  that  Miss  Cynthia 
seemed  mystified  and  serious.  I  knew  she 
wished  very  much  to  say  something,  to  have 
something  explained  to  her,  but  she  said 

210 


The  Dream  of  a  Melody 

nothing.  Twice  she  came  in  and  twice  went 
nervously  out  of  my  room.  Once  I  saw  her 
looking  and  listening  intently  at  the  library 
door,  within  which  was  the  piano  where  Thesis 
had  so  often  played.  Suddenly  she  started 
quickly,  and  for  the  third  time  left  the  room 
with  no  explanation.  I  do  not  know  why  I 
thought  it,  for  was  not  Thesis  at  that  time  in 
another  city  ?  But  if  she — 

My  heart  thrilled  as  with  the  flush  of  a 
winged  joy — indeed,  indeed,  it  was  her  touch 
on  the  keys  in  the  next  room— the  old  touch — 
the  old  melody  that  filled  my  soul.  It  came 
again,  this  far-off  sweetness  in  which  Chopin 
poured  out  his  heart.  My  head  sank  on  my 
breast.  I  wept.  An  hour  passed.  The  music 
died  away  and  left  me  weeping. 

The  love  of  woman  surpasses  that  of  man — 
aye,  it  passeth  man's  understanding.  It  de- 
spises words  and  is  silent.  It  is  best  told  in  a 
dream,  in  a  song,  in  a  melody,  a  separation,  a 
sacrifice.  And  a  woman  writes  it  in  the  path 
of  her  life  as  the  stars  write  the  journey  of 
their  hearts  in  the  pathway  of  the  milky-way. 


211 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  HILLS. 

O  FAR-AWAY  hills,  faint,  far-away  hills, 
Will  you  tell  me  the  secret  you  hold  ? 
What  dreaming  day  lulled  by  the  twinkle  of 

rills, 

Lies  asleep  in  your  mellow  and  mold  ? 
What  Summer-time  sent  from  the  long,  long 

ago, 
What  Spring  tides  of  pleasure  that  bubble 

and  flow, 
What  laughter  from  lips  that  are  cold  ? 

O  far-away  hills,  faint,  far-away  hills, 

Will  you  give  me  the  solace  you  hold  ? 
The  dream-bordered  solace  of  memory's  mills, 

The  tinkle  of  bells  in  the  fold — 
The  hush-time  of  evening,  the  lush-time  that 

fills, 

The  child-days  that  never  grow  old — 
O  far-away  hills. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

I  SEEM  to  remember  only  one  great  desire 
during  those  days  of  despair  and  suffering. 
I  did  not  care  to  be  strong  again  for  myself, 
the  blow  had  fallen  too  heavily  and  time  had 
reconciled  me  to  it — fixed  in  me  the  thought 
that  it  could  never  be  otherwise.  I  did  not 
care  to  be  well  again  to  make  money,  to  fight 
life's  battle,  nay,  not  even  to  walk  over  the 
fields  again,  to  ride  over  the  hills,  in  the 
strength  and  sweetness  of  health  and  youth. 
But  just  to  be  well  again,  that  I  might  find 
Thesis,  go  to  her,  and  offer  her  again  the  love 
of  a  strong  man. 

Day  after  day  and  week  after  week,  I  sat 
at  my  window  and  looked  across  the  blue  hills 
toward  Nashville. 

There  is  nothing  in  all  nature  so  comforting, 

so  restful,  and  yet  so  awe-inspiring  to  me  as 
215 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

the  eternal  silence  and  solitude  that  seems  to 
hang  over  the  distant  hills.  Who  lives  among 
them,  in  their  far-away  homes  ?  Is  that  blue 
veil  that  hangs  over  them  but  the  reflection 
of  sunlight  like  ours,  or  is  it  the  curtain  of 
an  unsolved,  unexplored  land  where  only 
memories  live  ?  If  1  might  go  to  them,  slip 
off  from  the  main  road  that  leads  over  them, 
and  penetrate  their  innermost  recesses,  their 
very  heart  of  hearts,  would  the  veil  be  with- 
drawn to  me,  would  they  give  up  the  secret 
of  their  rest  and  sweetness,  or  would  they 
point  me  still  further  on,  would  they  send  me 
sadly  away  and  bid  me  seek  it  from  those, 
their  comrades,  still  further  off,  resting  also 
in  their  solitude  and  silence  ?  Would  the 
mystery  of  it  never  be  solved  ? 

Oh  !  hills — oh,  life !  that  we  must  wander 
and  stumble  onward  trying  to  lift  the  curtain 
that  droops  across  the  face  of  the  future,  to 
solve  the  mysteries  of  the  life  to  be,  seeking, 
seeking  ever  to  penetrate  the  land  of  silence 
that  we  may  find  rest,  seeking  and  wandering 
on,  only  to  find,  when  we  reach  it,  the  curtain 

withdrawn,  and  that  which  was  to  be  the  roof- 
216 


The  Secret  of  the  Hills 

tree  of  our  soul,  but  the  reflected  light  from 
the  shadows  of  our  own  sun  ! 

Oh,  hills— oh,  life  ! 

But  one  day  I  found  it  harder  than  ever  to 
bear,  for  as  I  looked  across  the  hills,  I  saw  the 
first  crimson  streak  in  the  leaves  of  the  forest. 
Then  the  birds  began  to  migrate,  and  my  heart 
sank  within  me — oh,  if  they  would  only  not 
leave  me  ! 

The  cat-birds  left  early.  I  mourned  within 
myself  that  morning  when  I  saw  them  no  more 
in  the  cherry  trees,  now  nearly  bare. 

"When  you  came  in  the  Spring,"  I 
thought,  "  how  different  life  seemed  to  me. 

"  Now — now " 

The  migration  of  the  birds  is  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  of  things.  Few  of  us  see  or  notice 
it,  we  are  so  busy  with  our  own  affairs.  But 
all  the  law  of  nature,  all  the  harmony  of  the 
spheres,  is  involved  in  this  bird  instinct. 

Some  went  South,  passing  in  pairs  or  groups, 
paying  me  little  neighborly  visits  as  they  went, 
stopping  a  day  or  two  to  sing  and  flit  about,  to 
sring  their  farewell  songs  and  be  social  and 

friendly.     These  little  ones  must  be  watched 
217 


closely  if  you  would  enjoy  their  brief  visits. 
They  come  from  the  far  North,  and  are 
strangers  in  a  strange  land.  But  they  make 
themselves  so  much  at  home,  one  is  apt  not  to 
notice  them,  or  to  suppose  they  are  the  same 
little  friends  that  have  been  with  us  all  Sum- 
mer. Others  go  by  in  strange  nervous  flocks, 
resting  but  a  moment  in  the  tall  trees,  or 
sweeping  onward  toward  the  reeds  and  rushes 
of  a  far-away  Southern  home.  The  bobolink, 
with  his  gorgeous  summer  plumage  changed 
to  the  modest  gray  of  his  little  wife — for  now 
he  is  gregarious,  and  must  not  be  a  target  for 
the  eye  of  his  enemy — scarcely  stops  to  bid  us 
good-day,  ere  he  is  gone  again.  The  red- 
wing black-bird  cannot  change  his  plumage, 
but  must  devise  other  though  quite  ungallant 
means;  and  so  the  males  travel  Southward  as 
they  came  Northward  in  the  Spring — in  one 
flock,  the  females  in  another. 

Thus  they  all  left  me,  all  but  the  swallows. 
I  knew  they  too  were  going  soon,  because 
they  congregated  in  one  great  chimney  at 
Lynwood,  and  soared  and  swept  and  twittered 

around  in  the  pure,  clear  Autumn  air,  as  if 
218 


The  Secret  of  the  Hills 

trying  their  wings  for  their  distant  flight.  One 
morning,  after  an  unusually  noisy  convention 
the  afternoon  before,  I  heard  them  no  more, 
and  so  I  knew  that  they  too  were  gone. 

And  thus  they  all  went  but  the  mocking-bird. 
Game,  brave  fellow  that  he  was,  he  stayed  to 
sing  and  cheer  me  through  the  long  Winter 
months. 

It  was  due  to  old  Wash's  persistence  that  I 
was  allowed  to  sit  up  at  all.  He  would  beg 
and  coax  me,  as  if  I  were  a  little  child,  to  try 
to  walk,  to  try  to  raise  my  hand.  But  try 
as  I  would,  one  side  remained  weak  and  help- 
less. 

One  day, — I  shall  never  forget  it, — it  was 
about  three  weeks  before  Marjorie  was  to  be 
shipped  North  to  make  the  great  race  of  her 
life.  Marvellous  were  the  tales  the  old  man 
had  told  me  of  her  great  speed,  and  how  in  the 
Ten  Thousand  Dollar  Purse  in  which  she  was 
entered  there  was  nothing  that  could  out-foot 
her. 

"Oh,  she's  oil  in  de  can,  boss — oil  in  de 
can,"  he  would  say. 

He  was  exercising  her  that  morning,  and 
219 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

drove  up  to  my  window.  She  nickered  when 
she  saw  me,  and  turned  her  big  brown 
eyes,  so  full  of  human  sympathy,  on  me. 
Hooked  to  my  light  speed  wagon  !  I  wondered 
what  the  old  man  meant.  In  a  few  minutes  I 
learned,  for  he  came  in  without  a  word,  lifted 
me  as  if  I  had  been  an  infant,  and  placed 
me  in  the  cart.  Then  he  got  in  beside  me, 
holding  me  with  one  hand  and  driving  the  filly 
with  the  other,  turned  her  head  and  sped  away 
to  the  track.  The  air  rushed  into  my  lungs 
as  she  flew  along.  I  felt  the  old  tinge  come 
back,  my  old  spirit  and  fearlessness.  Yet  1 
clung  to  him  as  a  babe  to  its  mother. 

Wheeling  into  the  track,  he  gave  her  he* 
head ;  but  I  could  see  he  was  watching  me 
very  closely,  and  I  thought  I  detected  an 
amused  look  on  his  quaint  old  face.  I  knew 
he  was  trying  an  experiment,  but  I  did  not 
guess  what  it  was,  until,  stepping  the  filly  to 
her  limit,  she  seemed  fairly  to  fly.  The  eighth- 
and  quarter-posts  flew  by  me,  the  sunshine 
seemed  to  shoot  through  and  through  me,  and 
the  blood  pulsed  through  my  heart  and  body 
like  liquid  fire.  On — on  the  filly  flew, — her 

220 


The  Secret  of  the  Hills 

very  breath  was  fire,  her  heels  the  twinkle  of 
a  hundred  stars. 

At  the  last  quarter  I  saw  the  old  man  pull 
out  his  watch  and  snap  it.  It  seemed  but  an 
instant,  when,  with  the  rushing  air  scorching 
my  cheeks  like  blasts  of  hot  ether,  and  the 
fence-posts  flying  by,  hand  in  hand,  like  danc- 
ing ghosts,  we  rushed  under  the  wire  and  I 
heard  his  watch  snap  again.  I  looked  at  it — 
it  was  thirty  seconds  ! 

"Wonderful!  Wonderful,— Wash!"  lex- 
claimed.  "  A  two  minute  gait,  and  drawing 
two  men  and  a  wagon  !" 

"  Jes'  watch  de  next  one,"  he  chuckled — 
"she  aint  pacin*  yit!"  And  he  whispered 
low  and  clucked  to  her.  She  laughed  back 
with  a  shake  of  her  head  as  she  felt  the  lines 
come  taut,  and  moved  away  like  a  flying 
meteor.  The  skeleton  cart  seemed  scarcely 
to  touch  the  ground.  In  an  instant  I  forgot 
myself.  1  was  pulsing  with  blood  and  excite- 
ment, and  1  reached  out,  grasped  the  lines 
with  both  hands,  and  shouted, 

"  Let  me  drive  her— for  heaven's  sake  let 
me  hold  those  lines  !" 

221 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

I  scarcely  knew  what  I  did.  I  was  brought 
back  to  myself  when  I  heard  the  old  man 
shout  and  felt  him  throw  both  his  arms  around 
me.  But  I  had  the  lines  and  I  telegraphed  my 
wish  to  her  sensitive  mouth.  She  seemed 
proud  to  know  that  it  was  I  who  could  drive 
her  again,  and  she  flew  along  as  she  never  had 
before.  When  we  pulled  up  at  the  gate,  I 
knew  why  the  old  man  shouted,  why  the  tears 
of  joy  stood  in  his  eyes.  For  I  felt  a  great 
wave  of  life  sweep  over  me  and  I  knew  I  was 
myself  again. 

Tenderly  he  tried  to  help  me  to  alight.  But  I 
would  not  have  it  so ;  1  stepped  from  the  wagon 
myself,  then  sank  on  the  grass  and  thanked 
God  in  prayer.  And  as  1  prayed,  the  sweet 
tears  of  thankfulness  ran  down  my  cheeks, 
and  through  and  rn  them  all  I  saw  the  vision 
of  another  life,  and  with  me  one  who  walked 
by  my  side  and  beckoned  me  to  follow  her 
through  fields  where  nature  and  sweetness 
dwelt,  through  woods  where  the  birds  sang, 
through  years  where  love  led  on  to  holier 
living. 

When  I  arose,  the  old  man  was  rubbing  out 

222 


The  Secret  of  the  Hills 

the  filly  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  He  did 
not  seem  to  notice  that  I  was  there.  He 
was  wrapping  her  up  in  a  blanket  as  a  mother 
might  tuck  away  her  babe. 

"Fur  she's  oil  in  de  can,  boss — oil  in  de 
can,"  was  all  he  would  say. 

I  could  not  speak,  but  I  put  both  my  arms 
around  her  neck,  and  she  looked  humanly 
down,  her  great  earnest  eyes  into  mine. 

But  those  first  few  steps — never  before  had 
1  felt  such  a  throb  of  joy  ! 


LITTLE  MISS  FIDDLE. 

DAR  now,  Banjo  !— t'ek  yo'  sign  in,- 
Let  Miss  Fiddle  sing  her  song. 
O  my  h'art— I'm  jes'  a  pinin'— 

Come,  Miss  Fiddle,  come  along — 
Wid  yo'  gleam  of  sun  in  show'rs, 

Nights  so  sweet  an'  days  so  ca'mful— 
Wid  yo'  birds  an'  bees  an'  flow'rs, 
Fetchin'  music  by  de  armful ! 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

IT  was  nearly  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  yet  I  could  not  sleep  for  very  joy. 

I  walked  around  the  room  like  a  child  who, 
having  that  day  learned  the  art,  now  would 
walk  itself  to  death.  I  picked  up  my  Indian 
clubs.  I  could  scarcely  lift  them,  yet  how 
proud  I  was  of  my  strength  !  I  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  across  the  hills  toward 
Nashville. 

"  If  I  might  only  go  to-night — but  not  yet, 
my  heart — not  yet."  Finally  I  could  stand  it 
no  longer — this  wild  joy  in  my  heart.  Putting 
on  my  hat,  I  slipped  out  to  the  old  man's  cabin. 
To  my  surprise  his  light  was  burning,  and  as 
he  opened  the  door  I  caught  my  breath,  so 
gorgeously  was  he  attired. 

"  In  the  name  of  heaven,  Wash  !" 

"  Celerbratin'.  Marster  —  celerbratin'  dis 
227 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

flo'is  day" — and  he  gave  me  one  of  his  old- 
time  bows,  with  a  sweep  that  was  grand. 

"We'll  celebrate  together,"  I  said. 

The  old  man  needed  no  further  hint  He 
vanished,  and  in  a  short  while  he  brought 
back  a  decanter  of  Tennessee  whiskey — he 
himself  had  made  it  for  my  father,  and  it  was 
of  a  vintage  of  twenty  years  before. 

But  as  he  went  off  I  had  laughed  at  his 
costume.  A  spike-tail  coat  and  white  satin 
waistcoat  he  had  worn  when  he  served  at  Pres- 
ident Folk's  inauguration.  Knee-breeches  of 
green  velvet,  shiny  brass  buckles,  and  white 
home-knit  stockings  that  looked  as  if  they  had 
come  out  of  the  military  chest  of  General  An- 
drew Jackson  in  the  rooms  of  the  Tennessee 
Historical  Society. 

"  Bar's  oil  an'  cinnermon  draps  "  on  his  hair 
— a  red  silk  bandana  handkerchief,  for  a  cra- 
vat, around  his  high  standing  collar, — and  low 
quartered  shoes — these  completed  his  attire. 

When  the  old  man  dressed  in  that  way — a 
classical  renaissance  done  up  in  ebony — I 
knew  he  meant  it  as  the  chiefest  of  all  compli- 
ments. 

228 


Little  Miss  Fiddle 

He  drank  his  toast  very  reverently. 

"  It's  to  Little  Glory,  God  bless  her !"  was 
ail  he  said. 

"  You  may  take  another  one  on  that,"  I 
said,  as  I  poured  him  another  glassful. 

In  ten  minutes  he  was  in  one  of  his  mellow 
moods,  the  mood  I  loved  so  much  in  the  old 
darky ;  I  knew  he  had  something  rich  com- 
ing, and  I  was  not  disappointed.  He  went  to 
an  old  chest  and  took  out  his  violin.  It  was 
an  old  one — a  Stradivarius. 

My  great-great-grandfather  had  brought  it 
from  England  when  he  first  settled  in  Carolina. 
It  had  passed  through  four  generations  of  us  to 
my  father.  At  his  death,  because  old  Wash 
was,  first  of  all,  a  musician  and  his  trusted 
slave  and  devoted  friend,  it  was  given  to 
him  ;  but  chiefly  because  the  old  man  wanted 
it.  And  my  father  also  remembered  how, 
during  the  fights  around  Atlanta,  old  Wash, 
who  was  his  body  servant,  had  ridden  down  a 
whole  line  of  the  enemy,  receiving  the  fire  of 
every  gun,  yet  miraculously  catching  no  bullet 
— all  to  save  an  old  violin  left  in  camp  the 

night  before,  and  the  camp  in  the  hands  of  the 
229 


enemy.  How  he  escaped  unhurt  and  brought 
it  through  the  lines  is  to  this  day  a  wonder. 

There  were  few  things  I  liked  more  than 
to  hear  the  old  man  play.  If  ever  there  was 
a  violinist  it  was  he.  He  seemed  to  grasp 
music  naturally.  He  had  only  to  swing  his 
bow  and  it  flowed  like  a  clear  mountain  stream 
from  the  darkened  depths  within. 

He  was  not  a  negro  fiddler — he  was  an  artist 
— a  musician.  In  the  glow  and  heat  and  fever 
of  his  passion  I  have  known  him  to  improvise 
music  as  grand  as  any  obligato  ever  composed. 
But  it  passed  with  the  breath  of  it — not  a  note 
has  remained. 

"  What  is  the  difference  between  a  fiddle 
and  a  violin  ?"•  I  asked  him  once. 

"  De  same  dif'runce,  Marster,"  he  said, 
"  as  'tween  de  fiddler  and  de  vi'linist." 

He  brought  out  his  violin,  took  his  seat,  un- 
buttoned his  shirt  collar,  and  said, 

"  I'm  gwine  co'rt  Little  Miss  Fiddle  fur  you 
to-night. 

"Now,  you  musn't  co'rt  Little  Miss  Fiddle 
lak  you  do  eny  yudder  gal,"  he  went  on, 

"fur  she's  a  gal  of  sperrit — she's  got  some 
330 


Little  Miss  Fiddle 

rigernalerty.  You  tnusn't  be  in  a  hurry, 
musn't  lose  yo'  haid,  an'  as  you  hopes  to  win 
her,  don't  fur  heaben  sake  carry  on  no  flutta- 
shun  wid  no  yudder  gal  twell  Miss  Fiddle  is 
yourn  " — he  winked.  "  She's  awful  prutty  and 
sweet  an'  tall  dat,  but  man-suh,  she's  high 
strung  and  won't  stan'  no  foolishness  'fall ! 
Uh-ur !  Can't  hab  but  one  luv  wid  her. 

"  But  when  yo've  won  'er,  man-suh,  she's 
wurf  all  de  yudder  gals  in  de  wurl.  No  yudder 
gal  in  de  wurl  can  drap  'er  sweet  little  haid  on 
yo'  shoulder  lak  she  do — jes'  so" — and  he  put 
his  violin  lovingly  under  his  chin — "  and  nestle 
right  up  under  yo'  year,  so  you  kin  talk  to  'er 
soft  lak,  an'  kiss  'er  cheek  and  eyes,  an'  she 
kin  whisper  back.  Fur  you  got  to  make  yo' 
move,  you  know,  by  de  whisper  she  sends 
back.  An'  dar  she  jes'  lafs  back  in  yo'  eyes 
an'  gives  you  all  de  chance  you  want  to  throw 
yo'  lef  arm  round  'er  sweet  little  neck  art' 
tickle  'er  under  de  chin  wid  yo'  own  tune. 
Uh-ur !  No  gal  in  de  wurl  lak  her. 

"Now,  take  Miss  Peanner,  f'instunce ; 
man-suh,  I  don't  lak  her  'fall.  She's  too 
proud  and  col',  allers  dressed  up  in  white  an' 
231 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

black,  settin'  off  in  her  ribbons  an'  gowns, 
talkin'  bout  sassiety  and  Germany  an'  all  dat ; 
when  you  co'rt  'er,  you  got  to  set  off,  too,  so 
dignerfied  lak,  an'  sorter  feel  yo'  way  'long, 
an'  then  ma'ebbe  you  hafter  thump  'er  an'  box 
'er  and  bang  'er  years  befo'  she'll  talk  sweet. 
An'  den  she'll  tell  you  jes'  whut  she'll  tell 
eny  yudder  feller  dat  co'rts  de  same  way. 

"  But  de  sweet  little  fiddle  she's  got  a  dif- 
'runt  talk  fur  every  feller  she  luvs,  an'  de 
closer  you  squeeze  'er  an'  hold  'er  to  yo' 
heart  an'  kiss  'er  cheek  an'  tickle  'er  under 
de  chin  de  sweeter  she  gwineter  talk  back  to 
you — man-suh,  dat's  a  fac' !  Den  arter  you 
done  marry  dat  Peanner  gal,  she  no  good. 
'Taint  long  befo'  she's  stayin'  off  in  a  room 
by  herse'f,  allers  shut  off  by  herse'f  in  de 
parlor  and  wid  all  her  finery  on.  Makes  a 
prutty  good  housekeeper,  to-be-sho',  allers 
carryin'  her  keys  'round,  an*  sech  lak.  But 
she  jes'  can't  nachully  hang  'round  yo'  neck 
'bout  de  fiah  place,  or  set  in  yo'  lap  lak  Little 
Miss  Fiddle. 

"An'  dar's  Miss  Git-tar,"  he  went  on — 

"  she's  no  good.    Fit  only  to  be  along  wid  sap- 
232 


Little  Miss  Fiddle 

haids  an'  fools.  Can't  do  nothin*  but  lay  in 
yo'  lap  an'  look  up  an'  sing  luv  songs  to  de 
moon.  Too  soft — too  soft !  Too  reddy  to  fall 
in  lub  soon  as  you  tech  her. 

"  De  Organ  you  ax  about,  sah  ?  Nice,  good, 
'lig'us  ole  maid.  Still  I  lak  'er,  fur  she's  mighty 
fat  an'  good-nachured  an'  solumn,  an'  sings 
prutty  well  in  de  quire  ef  she  don't  ketch  a 
cold.  Too  gloomy,  dough ;  allers  thinkin' 
'bout  death  an'  runnin'  arter  funerals  an' 
tendin'  distracted  meetin's.  Nice  good  ole 
church  worker,  but  nurver  will  marry — got  too 
much  'lig'un. 

"  Miss  Banjo  ?  Oh  dem  golden  slippers ! 
Now  you  heah  dis  nigger  shout !  Yaller  gal — 
awful  sweet.  Cheeks  roses  an1  jes'  full  ob 
romance.  Got  to  pinch  'er  and  tickle  'er  a 
heap  to  m'ek  'er  talk  right,  but  when  she  do 
begin  to  sing,  man-suh,  she's  a  lark !  Kin  sing 
eny  kind  o'  tune,  from  Dixie,  de  tune  dat 
'ud  march  Johnny  Rebs  agin  de  breastworks 
ob  death,  to  de  sweet  lullerbies  ob  our  child- 
hood. Kin  m'ek  you  split  yo'  sides  wid  funny 
songs,  or  cry  lak  a  baby  as  she  leads  you  all 
ober  de  ole  plantashun,  whar  de  ole  folks  used 
233 


to  lib.  God  bless  yo'  sweet  soul,  honey,  comin* 
right  down  to  Charley-on-de-spot,  you  am  de 
gal  fur  me  ! 

"But  de  beauty  'bout  Little  Miss  Fiddle  she 
gits  better  es  she  gits  older.  Dis  gal  ob 
mine,"  he  added,  taking  up  his  violin  lovingly 
and  caressing  it,  "is  two  hunderd  an'thurty- 
five  year  ole,  an'  she  gits  sweeter  an'  pruttier 
es  she  gits  older. 

"  Now  jes'  watch  me  co'rt  her,"  he  winked. 

He  drew  his  bow,  made  a  flourish,  and 
touched  the  strings  with  apparent  indifference, 
but  with  a  keen,  quick  ear,  and  watched  the 
effect. 

"  What's  all  that  for  ?  Why  don't  you  go 
on  and  play  ?" 

"Gitten'  'quainted  wid  her,  suh, — tellin' 
her  'Good  ebenin',  Madam.'  She  don't  'peer 
to  know  me  yit,"  he  went  on — "  don't  seem 
to  want  to  talk.  She's  a  little  col'  at  fust, 
but  jes'  wait  till  she  warms  up  some.  She 
don't  talk  love  on  a  col'  collar — I've  got  to 
whisper  in  'er  year  mighty  fine.  No,  suh,  de 
man  don't  lib  dat  kin  jes'  grab  up  Little  Miss 
Fiddle  on  fust  'quain'tunce  an*  smack  'er 
234 


Little  Miss  Fiddle 

red  lips  an'  m'ek  'er  laf  an'  lay  'er  cheek 
agin  his'n  and  go  right  off  talkin'  sweet  on  fust 
'quain'tunce.  Listen  now — jes'  watch  'er 
talk  back  to  me." 

He  drew  his  bow  with  a  quick  flourish  gently 
across  the  strings.  "  '  /  don't  know  you,  suh,' 
she  sez — Heah  dat,  jes'  es  plain  es  it  kin  be  ? 
1 1  don't  know  you,  suh,'  she  sez — Huh — er — er ! 
But  I  knows  you,  sweetheart — I  knows  you," 
he  said  as  his  bow  began  to  fly  to  and  fro. 
"See  'er  eyes  flash  !  '  How  dart  you,  suh! 
How  dare  you,  suh !'  Who-o !  but  aint  she 
powder  an'  fiah  ? 

"  I'll  gin'  'er  a  little  poetry  : 

1  do  not  kno'  yo'  name,  'tis  true — 
But  dis  I  kno'  to  my  h'art's  own  rue 
De  sweetis  gal  in  de  wurl  am  you. 

Hi — yi — ee  !  see  dat  blush  ?  Heah  dat  little 
laugh — aint  it  nachul  ?  Don't  you  see  'er 
beginnin'  to  limber  up  ?  Miss  Fiddle  jes'  lak 
eny  yudder  gal,  she  luvs  to  be  called  prutty, 
an'  ef  you  win  'er,  you  got  to  do  jes'  lak  you 
do  to  all  de  yudders — lie  an'  lie  an'  lie  to  'em  ! 
Now  jes'  watch  me  do  it, — bow  an'  sashay  an' 
235 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

scrape  aroun'.  Tell  'er  I've  come  way  'cross 
de  ocean  jes'  to  see  'er,  an*  how  'er  blush 
minds  me  ob  de  sunshine  on  de  waves,  an1 
her  eyes  ob  de  moonlight  on  de  deep." 

I  never  heard  such  music.  The  old  man 
seemed  carried  away  in  a  tumult  of  melody. 
His  body  swayed  under  the  excitement.  His 
honest  old  black  face  shone  like  a  star,  and  all 
the  time,  as  he  played,  he  wove  in  his  story. 

"Dar  now,  Darlin' — now  we  clippin'  it — 
now  is  de  time  fur  luv.  See  how  de  stars 
smile  sorter  faint  lak  in  de  moonlight  an'  de 
shadders  round  de  lake  nudge  one  nudder  an' 
laf  across  de  waves.  Heah  dat  bird  ? ' ' — and  he 
imitated  the  notes  of  the  wood-thrush  as  per- 
fectly as  the  bird  himself — "dat's  de  wood- 
thrush  in  de  lily  hedge,  dun  waked  up  case 
his  heart  is  so  full  ob  music  an'  melerdy  he  can't 
sleep,  and  he  jes'  bleezter  sing  to  his  mate  on 
de  nest.  Can't  you  smell  de  lily  flags  es  de 
wind  blows  'em  noddin'  so  sleepy  lak  across 
de  lake  ?  Can't  you  jes'  feel  de  sweetness  all 
round  you  under  de  soft  sky  lak  de  bref  ob  a 
sleepin'  babe  under  de  snug  filmy  drapery  ob 

de  crib  ?     Lis'n  at  'er  laffin'  at  me  now,  and 
236 


Little  Miss  Fiddle 

den  lookin'  up  at  me  quick  and  shy.  Oh  my 
sweet  Little  Miss  Fiddle — look  out !  Ain't 
you  done  fin*  yo*  match  ?" 

Here,  to  my  delight,  he  improvised  a  beauti- 
ful waltz. 

"  Lord  a  mussy  !  Did  you  eber  ?  Dun 
gone  to  waltzin'  wid  me  erreddy.  Oh,  dem 
golden  slippers — Oh,  dem  little  feet — how  dey 
do  talk  !  How  dey  kin  step  fur  dey  age  !  Whut 
a  stately  step  she's  got.  Look  how  she  leads 
in  de  minuet.  Now-suh,  she's  fairly  waltzin' 
me  in  de  air.  Lord,  ain't  she  a  warm  un  ? 
An'  now — jes'  look — she's  pantin'  in  my  arms, 
wid  'er  haid  on  my  breast,  lak  a  run  down 
fawn  on  de  mossy  bank  ob  de  creek  in  de  shade 
ob  de  sycamo'  tree. 

"  Er— uh  !  dat's  it,  is  it,  Little  Miss  Fiddle  ? 
Gwine  gimme  nudder  heat  ?  Lord,  how  kin 
1  stan'  it  ?  Flesh  and  blood  can't  stand  dat, 
an'  you  red  es  a  rose  now  an'  trimblin'  all 
over.  But  dar  now  !  Ain't  she  sweet  ernuff 
to  eat  ?  See  de  little  wet  curls  clingin'  round 
her  cheek  lak  curly  clouds  round  de  sky  when 
de  sun  am  settin' ;  an'  now,  es  she  draps  into 
de  promernade  all  see  her  takin*  my  arm  an' 
237 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

laffin'  an'  fannin'  hersef.  Watch  her  use  dat 
fan — ain't  she  a  queen  ?  but  wan't  dat  waltz 
fine  ? 

"Come,  Little  Miss  Fiddle,  come  wid  me, 
gal.  De  air  am  cool  an'  sweet  an'  de  stars  am 
made  fur  luv'ahs.  Come  wid  me  now,  an'  let 
us  set  on  de  mossy  bank  ob  de  lake — close  up, 
gal,  close  up — so  we  can  talk  low  and  sweet, 
whlls't  you  look  up  in  my  face  wid  eyes  lak 
stars  lookin'  up  in  de  black  face  ob  night. 

"  Don't  you  heah  what  I'm  sayin'  to  you  ? 
Hush  gal,  don't  you  heah  it  ?  Don't  you  heah 
me  tellin'  you  how  I  luv  you  ?  How  all  dese 
years  I've  luv'd  you,  whils't  de  stars  look 
down  and  laf.  How  ever  sence  you  was  a 
little  gal  I've  luv'd  you,  an'  nobody  but  you, 
an'  ef  you  don't  nab  me  now  I'm  gwine  pine 
erway,p-i-n-e  erway — p-i-n-e  e-r-w-a-y  an'die! 
Dar  now  !  she's  cryin'  an'  sobbin'  an'  clingin' 
round  my  neck  an'  quiverin'  like  ten  thousand 
quivers.  Her  h'art  is  gone  and  she  quivers 
lak  a  bow-strin'  when  de  arrer's  done  shot." 

The  note  ended  in  the  faintest  imitation  of 
a  kiss. 

"  Hi — ho  !  jes'  look  at  me  now  !"  he  shouted 
238 


Little  Miss  Fiddle 

as  he  swung  his  bow  and  burst  from  one  grand 
climax  into  another — "I'm  crazy  wid  luv  an* 
too  happy  to  live.  I'm  holdin'  her  in  my  arms 
an'  kissin'  her  eyes  an'  cheek  an'  mouf.  I'm 
playin'  de  weddin'  march  ob  de  angels  on  de 
thunder  organ  ob  all  eternity,  an'  she  tremblin' 
an'  laffin'  an'  cryin'  an'  blushin'  an'  white 
an'  red  an'  pale  an'  gray. 

"Hi — yi — jes'  look  at  me  now!  Turnin' 
de  air  into  music,  m'ekin'  de  grass  sing,  de 
trees  dance,  an'  de  skies  laff.  Pullin'  de  stars 
down  fur  fiddle-strings,  stringin'  em  up  wid 
beams  of  sunlight — de  blue  vault  ob  heaben 
fur  my  fiddle  and  de  rainbow  ob  promise  fur  my 
bow— Glory  Halleluyah  !" 

I  left  him  hugging  his  fiddle,  mopping  his 
face  with  a  red  bandana,  and  reaching  for 
another  toast  for  Little  Glory.  I  left  him  with 
such  poetry  in  my  own  soul  as  I  had  never  felt 
before,  and  such  a  prayer  of  happy  thankful- 
ness, that  in  the  dark  shadow  of  an  oak  I 
dropped  to  my  knees  and  thanked  God  that 
I  was  a  man  again. 


239 


THE  LIGHT  REFLECTED. 

WE  live  and  laugh, 
And  know  not  life's  deep  seeming — 

We  live  and  weep, 
And  yet  we  weep  in  vain. 

We  live  and  love — 
Aye,  strange  that  from  life's  dreaming 
Comes  its  true  pain. 


16  241 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

I  WAS  up  at  daylight.  I  felt  so  full  of  the 
new  life  I  could  not  sleep,  and  I  had  been 
an  invalid  too  long  in  that  room  to  wish  to  stay 
in  it  longer  than  the  sun  permitted.  For  1 
had  sadly  neglected  him  of  late — him  and  his 
children  of  the  woods  and  fields.  I  was  up 
early,  first  of  all  to  surprise  the  Blind  Man. 
So  I  mounted  Alana  and  rode  over  to  his 
house.  What  a  glorious  thing  to  ride  again,  to 
feel  the  live  horse  between  your  knees,  her 
sensitive  mouth  braced  against  the  bit,  her 
whole  soul  respond  to  yours,  and  yours  re- 
spond to  every  breeze  and  sunbeam,  every 
bird  and  bird-note  ! 

To  my  surprise,  Mr.  Emerson  was  already 
up.  He  was  pacing  his  veranda  in  deep  study 
— in  fact,  in  an  agitation  that  was  unnatural 

with  him. 

243 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

I  intended  to  surprise  him  ;  so,  slipping  from 
the  saddle,  I  started  across  the  lawn.  He  had 
sat  down  on  a  bench  in  the  far  corner  and  lis- 
tened, looking  cautiously  around.  His  hearing 
was  very  acute,  and  he  had  detected  the  slight 
noise  of  my  footstep.  1  stood  still  until  he 
seemed  reassured,  then  slipped  quietly  up  be- 
hind him,  intending  to  seize  him  in  my  grasp 
and  give  him  a  royal  surprise. 

But  I  did  not,  for  just  as  1  reached  him  his 
hand  went  into  his  pocket  and  he  drew  from 
his  bosom  a  faded  and  much  thumbed  pack- 
age. It  was  an  unopened  letter,  directed  to 
him  in  the  girlish  handwriting  of  Thesis,  ten 
years  before.  He  dropped  into  an  undertone 
conversation  with  himself,  a  habit  he  had,  and 
I  heard  him  say, 

"  Yes,  she  wrote  this,  God  bless  her  !  when 
she  heard  I  was  blind.  She  was  a  child  then 
and  off  at  school,  but  I  know  what  is  in  it, 
though  I  have  never  read  it,  and  no  man  ever 
shall :  '  Tern — dear ,  dear  Tern — Oh  how  sorry  I  am 
for  you — never  to  see  again — never  to  see  me  and 
the  flowers  and  the  skies — /  cried  about  it  all  last 

night,  and  I  cannot  study  to-day.   But  I  love  you 
244 


The  Light  Reflected 

more — we  all— all  the  world  will  love  you  more 
than  ever,'  ...  .  it  is  all  there.  I  can  see  it 
just  as  plainly  as  if  1  had  read  every  word  of  it 
— just  as  plainly.  And  how  is  it  signed  ?  Let 
me  see — Yes,  only  one  way,  always  the  same 
way,  '  Your  own  little  girl,  Thesis.'  It  is 
there,  though  no  eyes  have  ever  seen  it — mine 
cannot,  and  it  is  too  sacred  for  any  other. 
Mine  cannot  now,  but  they  will,  some  day. 
For  it  will  be  buried  with  me,  and  on  that 
great  day  when  I  shall  awake  and  see  again, 
Pll — yes,  I  know  I  shall — I  shall  open  it  and 
read  it  first — open  it  and  read  it  first — 

" '  Will  awake  and  remember  and  understand.' " 

He  put  it  tenderly  away  in  his  pocket.  Then 
he  turned  over  a  photograph  that  went  with 
it — a  faded  picture,  but  still  it  was  she,  and 
at  sight  of  it  my  heart  beat  wildly.  I  was 
ashamed,  and  endeavored  to  move  away.  I 
had  not  intended  to  hear  him.  I  would  not 
look  into  his  holy  of  holies.  I  moved  to  be 
gone,  but  a  leaf  rustled  under  my  footsteps.  I 
stopped,  and  the  Blind  Man  looked  up  and 

listened  in  wonder.     Then  he  went  on  again, 
245 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

"  Let  me  look  at  it  once  more.  Blind  ?  aye> 
but  I  can  always  see  that — the  sweetness,  the 
beauty  of  it  would  penetrate  even  sightless 
eyes.  Her  eyes  have  not  changed  since  I  saw 
them  last, — great,  earnest,  unconscious,  truth- 
ful eyes — and  here  she  is  in  her  short  frock 
and  sweet  white  waist  and  her  school-girl  hair 
over  her  shoulders.  And  that  smile  on  those 
lips  !  who  says  that  I  cannot  see,"  he  added 
aloud — "that  I  cannot — cannot  see — " 

He  turned  pale — then  red  with  shame. 
"  Fool  that  I  am  !  Oh,  Ned,  I  am  unworthy 
of  your  friendship — My  God  !  And  yet  I  mean 
no  wrong,  I  cannot " 

He  kissed  it  and  put  it  again  in  his  bosom. 
Then  he  looked  up. 

There  was  once  a  traveller  who  heard  of  a 
barren,  rugged  volcano  in  a  foreign  land — the 
tallest,  grandest,  most  rugged,  and  yet  most 
barren  mountain  of  any  land — under  the 
scorching  sun  of  a  tropical  desert,  where  not  a 
blade  or  leaf  could  put  forth  the  heart  that 
was  in  it.  For  hundreds  of  miles  around  there 

was  nothing  but  the  hot  sands  below  and  the 
246 


The  Light  Reflected 

fierce  sky  above,  and  nothing  on  all  the  land- 
scape to  break  this  dead  monotony  of  the  dead 
— nothing  save  this  lofty,  barren  mountain, 
itself  the  crown  of  all  the  death  around  it. 
And  no  man  had  ever  scaled  it,  no  man  had 
ever  reached  its  summit  to  look  down  into  its 
sightless  sunken  crater.  No  man  except  this 
traveller,  who,  when  he  heard  of  it,  went 
many  miles  and  crossed  many  seas  to  reach  it. 
And  when  he  saw  it,  the  mountain  held  him 
with  a  strange  fascination ;  and  he  camped  for 
weeks  at  its  base,  and  he  loved  it  as  he  never 
had  loved  any  mountain  before.  By  day  he 
would  look  at  it  in  wonder,  its  summit  piercing 
the  hot  vaults  of  heaven,  lost  in  the  infinite 
blue.  And  by  night  he  would  go  out  and 
worship  with  it,  for  a  thousand  diamond- 
peaked  stars  seemed  to  cluster  around  its  top 
where  the  heavens  rested  upon  it.  At  last  the 
traveller  could  resist  no  longer,  and  he  resolved 
to  climb  to  its  very  top  and  look  down  into  its 
heart  of  hearts.  It  took  him  many  days  to  do 
it,  days  of  toil  and  thirst  and  labor.  But  one 
evening,  just  as  the  sun  was  setting,  he  gained 

its  height  and  knew  its  secret,  for  there,  bub- 

247 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

bling  up  from  its  crater-heart,  poured  the  purest 
and  most  beautiful  of  streams,  so  deep  and  pure 
that  the  tiniest  pebbles  could  be  seen  hundreds 
of  feet  below  in  its  depths.  And  the  sweet 
moisture  from  the  stream  had  caused  many- 
colored  flowers  of  the  rarest  and  most  beauti- 
ful hues  to  grow  in  every  crevice  of  the  scarred 
and  rugged  crater,  filling  the  air  with  sweet- 
ness and  fragrance,  until,  as  the  enraptured 
traveller  looked  down  upon  them,  they  seemed 
to  be  one  vast  bouquet  in  a  vase  of  granite  and 
gold.  And  the  setting  sun  caught  up  its 
splendor,  and  from  the  side  where  the  stream 
burst  forth  crowned  it  all  with  a  rainbow  of 
light. 

The  Blind  Man  was  weeping. 

It  was  an  hour  before  1  rode  back  again.  I 
slipped  from  the  saddle  and  seized  him  in  my 
arms.  "  Oh,  Ned  !  Ned!"  And  "God  be 
praised  !"  was  all  he  could  say. 


248 


\ 

THE  BLIND  DETECTIVE. 

AND  I  would  weep  for  thee,  thou  monarch 
of  the  wood, 
Thou  king  that  long  the  scorn  of  Time  hast 

stood. 

King  by  the  royal  right  of  strength  alone — 
With  star-crowned  head  bared  to  the  circling 

zone — 

Of  good  deeds  done,  of  sweetness  and  of  mirth, 
Scion  of  the  sun,  defender  of  the  earth — 
O,  1  would  weep  for  thee. 

And  1  would  mourn  for  thee,  aye,  truly  mourn, 
For  what  thou  wast  and  all  that  thou  hast  borne. 
Brother  to  the  skies,  companion  to  the  hills, 
Comrade  of  the  clouds  and  mother  of  the  rills, 
Gatherer  of  dews,  garnerer  of  herb  and  flowers, 
Guardian  of  the  muse  in  trysting,  twilight 
hours — 

O,  I  would  mourn  for  thee. 
249 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

And  I  would  honor  thee  for  what  thou'st  done, 
Scorner  of  winter's  wind  and  summer  sun, 
Builder  of  birds'    nests,  brewer  of  bubbling 

pool, 

Painter  of  shadows  dark  on  landscape  cool, 
Wafter  of  odors  sweet  on  summer's  breeze. 
Turner  of  winter's  sleet  and  biting  freeze — 
O,  I  would  honor  thee. 

And  I  would  reverence  thee,  thou  hoary  one, 
Thou  who  hast  stood  while  centuries  have  run, 
Thou  who  hast  seen  the  Indian  lover  stand 
While  virgin  morn  smiled  down  on  virgin  land — 
The  ax,  the  rifle  of  the  pioneer — 
All  these  have  passed,  and  all  had  left  thee 
here — 
And  I  would  reverence  thee. 

O,  Ax  of  Traffic,  buzzing  Saws  of  Trade, 
Dost  think  for  thee  alone  the  Earth  was  made  ? 
For  thee,  to  garner  clean  her  fields  of  corn, 
With  barren  hills  to  greet  the  babe  unborn  ? 
For  thee,  to  glutton  in  her  sweet-stored  wine 
And  leave  no  grape  on  fainting  Future's  vine  ? 

— Traffic. 


250 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

IT  was  early  in  the  afternoon  when  the  Blind 
Man  came  to  my  room.  Now  I  did  not 
wish  to  see  him  just  then,  because  in  another 
hour  I  would  have  been  on  my  way  to  Nash- 
ville. For  the  one  great  overpowering  impulse 
of  my  heart  was  to  see  Thesis  as  soon  as  1 
could. 

But  he  looked  determined  and  quiet,  and  I 
said  nothing  of  my  proposed  visit. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  seemed  to  wish 
to  talk.  Then  his  manner  was  so  stern,  and 
different  from  his  old  way,  that  1  felt  abashed 
in  his  presence. 

"  Ned,"  he  said,  after  a  while — "  1  wish  you 
to  go  a  little  journey  with  me  to-night.  I  have 
got  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  thing,  but  I  want 
you  to  hear  it  yourself — I  have  been  wanting 

to  tell  you  for  a  month,"  he  went  on  quietly, 
251 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

"ever  since  that  morning  I  told  you  of  the 
transfer  of  Colonel  Philips's  bank  stock  to 
Forde, — but  I  have  waited  until  you  were 
strong  enough  to  help  me." 

I  rose  and  gripped  his  hand.  "  How  is  that 
for  a  paralyzed  man  ?"  I  asked. 

He  smiled.  "  Oh,  that's  all  right.  But  I 
mean  strength  in  a  different  way.  The  weak- 
est man  I  ever  saw  could  toss  a  bale  of  cotton. 
Don't  ask  me  any  questions  now.  Have  the 
mare  ready  at  ten  o'clock." 

"Any  time  you  name,"  1  said,  "and  no 
questions  asked." 

It  was  just  ten  when  we  turned  the  mare's 
head  up  the  Mount  Pleasant  pike.  "Drive  to 
St.  John's  Church,"  was  all  he  said. 

There  are  few  roads  more  beautifully  sur- 
rounded than  the  Mount  Pleasant  pike,  thread- 
ing across  a  country  as  fertile  as  ever  the  crow 
flew  over.  Two  miles  out  of  town  the  Bigby 
Creek  dashes  across  it,  under  a  rustic  bridge, 
at  a  place  and  in  such  a  quaint  romantic  bend 
that  the  impulse  to  stop  and  drink  from  a  cold 
spring  that  bursts  from  a  lime-rock  crevice  on 

its  bank  is  almost  irresistible.     Further  on  the 
252 


The  Blind  Detective 

pike  winds  around  stately  and  sombre  hills, 
casting  their  cool  shadows  askant,  or  throwing 
them  in  gloomy  dignity  across  the  road  which 
winds  around  them. 

Just  over  the  rise  of  the  hills  lies  the  beauti- 
ful old  estate  of  Ashwood — the  ante-bellum 
home  of  the  Polks,  but  now  passed  into  the 
hands  of  others,  its  broad  acres  divided  and 
subdivided  to  meet  the  encroachments  of  a 
narrower  age,  its  beautiful  old  trees  now  en- 
circled by  "the  deadly  girdle,"  and  standing 
in  the  moonlight,  leaning,  limbless  monuments 
of  a  happier  time.  I  was  glad  the  Blind  Man 
could  not  see  it,  for  it  hurt  me.  I  who  had 
seen  them  in  their  beauty  and  glory — now  to 
behold  them  fall  a  victim  to  the  mercenary  spirit 
of  some  would-be  wheat-  and-potato  king. 

To  the  left  of  the  road  stands  the  deserted 
old  church,  in  all  its  sacred  sweetness — so 
sacred  that  even  the  speculative  spirit  of  the 
wheat-smut  and  potato-bug  has  passed  it  by — 
and  so  it  remains  amid  its  venerable  trees  and 
sacred  dead,  kneeling  among  its  evergreens, 
in  perpetual  communion  with  God — a  sacred 

altar  in  the  wilderness,  an  ark  of  the  past 
253 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

undesecrated  by  the  touch  of  the  unholy  hand 
of  the  present. 

It  was  a  beautiful  night,  and  the  full  moon 
lit  up  every  tomb,  until  I  could  almost  read 
the  epitaphs  where  I  sat  in  the  deep  shadows 
of  the  evergreens. 

The  Blind  Man  was  quiet  and  I  said  noth- 
ing. 1  did  not  know  what  he  meant,  and 
as  the  hours  passed  by  1  grew  nervous  and 
excited. 

A  screech-owl  came  out  and  sat  shivering 
on  the  limb  of  a  near-by  oak.  The  distant 
bark  of  a  cur  from  a  negro  cabin  was  added  to 
the  weird  notes  of  the  bird.  Then  I  heard  the 
rattle  of  a  buggy  on  the  pike.  It  stopped  at 
the  gate,  then  in  and  down  to  a  clump  of 
evergreens.  Two  men  got  out,  one  of  them 
unsteadily,  and  walked  across  the  yard.  As 
they  came  out  into  the  moonlight,  I  recognized 
them  and  clutched  the  Blind  Man's  arm. 

"  It  is  Joe  Forde  and  Colonel  Philips,"  I 
whispered.  The  Blind  Man  nodded — "  I  knew 
it,"  he  said — "  Be  quiet  and  let  us  see." 

Colonel    Philips  walked  unsteadily.      But 

Forde  walked  in  his  cool,  cold  way. 
254 


The  Blind  Detective 

"  Colonel  Philips  is  drinking  but  Forde  is 
sober,"  I  whispered  to  the  Blind  Man. 

He  nodded  again.  "  Forde  is  too  cold- 
blooded a  scoundrel  to  drink/'  he  said.  "  He 
doses  his  wits  with  wine  and  his  conscience 
with  cold  lemonade.  He  needs  all  his  brains 
for  his  own  villainy." 

They  came  across  the  yard  to  the  shadow 
of  a  Norwegian  spruce  under  which  a  slab, 
over  a  tomb,  shone  white  in  the  brilliant 
moonlight.  The  elder  man  stumbled  over  a 
grave  and  fell  sprawling. 

"  Get  up,"  said  Forde  gruffly — "  I  am  sur- 
prised that  a  man  of  your  age  and  sense  will 
drink.  You  are  in  a  place  where  you  will 
need  all  the  brains  you  have  got,"  he  added 
brutally. 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  said  the  older 
man  doggedly,  "  that  I  never  drank  to  excess 
until  you  got  me  into  this  embezzling." 

"Well,  I'll  give  you  a  chance  to-night  to 
win  your  money  back,"  laughed  Forde. 

"If  I  could  get  even  with  you  and  place 
that  money  back  in  bank — that  money  I  have 
used  in  gambling  with  you — I'd  never  play 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

another  game  of  cards  or  take  another  drink," 
said  the  other. 

"May  be  you  will  to-night,"  Forde  replied 
seductively. 

They  lit  cigars,  placed  a  silk  handkerchief 
over  the  corner  of  the  tomb,  sat  on  the  grass 
and  soon  began  to  play.  1  noticed  that  the 
money  Colonel  Philips  drew  from  his  pocket 
was  in  large  rolls.  He  drew  out  a  large  bill 
and  threw  it  down — Forde  covered  it  and  the 
game  of  poker  was  soon  on.  It  was  well 
that  the  Blind  Man  and  I  were  so  well  con- 
cealed ;  for  I  had  only  to  look  through  the 
tangled  shrubbery  to  see  the  players  within 
ten  feet  of  us.  So  interested  and  excited  they 
were,  that  they  made  not  a  sound.  Often 
their  cigars  went  out — three  times  in  an  hour 
1  saw  Forde  relight  his.  Suspecting  no  one  at 
such  an  hour  and  in  such  a  place,  they  paid 
no  attention  to  anything  but  the  game,  as 
they  threw  down  bill  after  bill  on  the  pile  and 
played  on  with  varying  gain  or  loss.  I  my- 
self grew  so  excited  that  1  sat  gripping  the 
Blind  Man's  hand.  He  seemed  to  fear  I 

would  make  some  noise,  for  he  gripped  my 
256 


The  Blind  Detective 

hand  in  return,  while  every  now  and  then  he 
would  whisper, 

"  Look  !  Listen  !  And  be  quiet,  Ned — be 
quiet  and  listen!" 

The  silence  was  broken  by  Colonel  Philips : 
"  1  am  five  thousand  dollars  ahead,  Forde," 
and  he  took  a  drink  from  a  silver  flask  that  lay 
by  his  side  in  the  moonlight.  "Guess  I'll  do 
you  up  to-night." 

Forde  smiled  and  played  on.  Another  hour 
went  by,  and  the  pile  of  bills  on  the  tomb 
now  contained  all  Colonel  Philips  had.  It 
had  started  with  a  thousand  dollars,  but  each 
had  "  seen  "  the  other  and  "  put  up,"  until, 
as  Colonel  Philips  threw  in  his  last  bill,  he 
added  recklessly, 

"  And  now  I  call  you — that  ten  thousand  is 
mine  to-night." 

1  was  watching  Forde  closely — I  saw  him 
slip  a  third  card  from  the  gaiter  of  his  shoe, 
as  he  sat  with  his  feet  drawn  up  under  him. 
One  of  the  cards  in  his  hand  took  its  place 
and  he  threw  down  his  hand  and  exclaimed, 

"  Not  unless  you  can  beat  that  hand  !" 
Colonel  Philips  looked  at  it,  threw  down  his 
17  257 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

cards  and  staggered  to  his  feet.  "  Let  us  go," 
he  said. 

Forde  thrust  the  bills  into  his  outer  coat- 
pocket  and  said,  "  Wait,  let  me  talk  to  you  a 
minute.  You  said  you  would  like  to  get  even 
with  me.  You  know  there  is  one  way  you 
can." 

"You  lied  to  Bernice  about  that  once  be- 
fore," said  Colonel  Philips  hotly — "and  you 
lied  to  her.  You  knew  he  was  not  in  love 
with  Bernice,  and  you  made  Thesis  believe  it. 
You  knew  her  unselfish  nature,  her  self-sacri- 
ficing way,  and  that  she  would " 

"You  do  not  mean  that  I  lied,"  said  Forde, 
turning  pale  with  anger.  "  You  mean  that  I 
was  mistaken." 

"  No,  1  mean  just  what  I  say,"  said  Colonel 
Philips  defiantly — "  y«u  lied  !  I  am  ashamed  of 
the  little  I  had  to  do  with  it,  and  I  tell  you  now 
I'd  rather  see  her  dead  than  married  to  you." 

I  looked  to  see  Forde  strike  him,  for  he 
clenched  his  fist,  and  his  eyes  fairly  blazed 
in  the  moonlight. 

I  half  arose,  but  I  felt  the  Blind  Man's  grip 

on  my  arm. 

258 


The  Blind  Detective 

"  Let  me  loose,"  I  whispered — "if  he  strikes 
that  old  man  I'll  kill  him  where  he  stands !" 

"Be  quiet,  Ned,  be  quiet,"  whispered  Ifte 
Blind  Man  as  he  held  me  back,  "be  quiet 
and  watch  him." 

"Come,"  went  on  Forde,  "we  may  as 
well  be  plain — all  that  is  past.  The  bank 
is  already  wrecked — there  is  not  ten  thousand 
dollars  in  the  vaults,  and  if  it  fails  you  know 
who  embezzled  it  and  where  you  will  land. 
She  will  marry  me  to  save  you — you  know 
she  will.  It  is  true  you  embezzled  the  deposits, 
and  the  cash  balance  will  show  that  you  have 
gambled  off  two  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
It  is  true  also  that  I  have  won  it  from  you. 
But  I  haven't  spent  a  cent  of  it,  and  I  will  re- 
place it  all,  saving  the  bank  and  saving  you  if 
you  will  help  me  to  force  her  to  marry  me. 
This  thing  can't  run  on  but  a  day  or  two 
longer," — he  added  significantly,  "and  then 


Colonel  Philips  moved  off  toward  the  bug- 
gy.    Forde  turned  as  if  to  follow  him,  then  he 
stopped  and  watched  the  old  man  until  he 
had  staggered  out  of  sight. 
259 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

And  now  I  was  so  indignant  that  I  felt  noth- 
ing should  restrain  me.  I  tried  to  spring  up 
and  confront  him,  but  the  Blind  Man's  iron 
grip  was  on  my  arm. 

"  Be  quiet,  Ned,  for  her  sake,"  he  whis- 
pered. "  Be  quiet  and  watch  him  now,  for  it 
is  this  we  have  come  for — this  is  the  most  im- 
portant of  all.  Watch  him — watch  him — for 
I  cannot  see,  you  know — watch  him — what  he 
does  next." 

Forde  stood  looking  until  he  thought  him- 
self alone.  Then,  slipping  by  one  of  the 
tombs,  he  cautiously  raised  the  half  broken 
top  and  took  out  a  safe-deposit  box.  For  a 
moment  he  looked  cautiously  around,  then 
placed  the  bills  in  it,  the  box  back  in  the  tomb, 
and  followed  Colonel  Philips. 

I  sat  in  astonishment  and  wonder  until  I 
heard  the  buggy-wheels  go  down  the  pike, 
and  die  away  in  the  distance.  Then  I  stepped 
quietly  over,  raised  the  broken  top  of  the  tomb 
and  brought  the  box  to  the  Blind  Man. 

It  took  us  a  half-hour  to  count  the  money — 
"nearly  two  hundred  thousand  dollars,"  I 

said. 

260 


The  Blind  Detective 

"  Just  what  I  expected,  Ned,"  he  answered 
gently.  "We  have  saved  the  bank  and  Colonel 
Philips,  too,  to-night.  You  see,"  he  explained, 
"this  thing  has  been  going  on  for  a  year  or 
two.  Forde  first  got  him  to  deal  in  futures. 
Both  of  them  used  the  funds  of  the  bank  for 
that,  expecting,  as  all  embezzlers  do,  to  re- 
place it,  and,  as  all  gamblers  do,  to  win  thou- 
sands for  every  hundred  used.  But  Forde 
won  and  Philips  lost.  To  regain  his  losses, 
Forde,  whom  I  have  known  to  be  a  gambler 
all  his  life,  has  led  him  to  cards,  inducing  and 
enticing  him  to  use  the  funds  of  the  bank,  and 
beating  him  fairly  or  foully.  A  weak  man  to 
begin  with,  Colonel  Philips  has  added  the 
folly  of  drink  to  the  rest  of  it,  and  so  has  be- 
come an  easy  prey  for  Forde.  Now,"  he 
said  rising,  "  now  to  save  him.  Did  you  hear 
his  cold-blooded  proposal,  Ned  ?  And  he  will 
stop  at  nothing  to  accomplish  it.  But  we  shall 
see — we  shall  see." 

We  had  driven  half-way  back  to  town  when 
the  Blind  Man  broke  the  silence  by  saying, 
"  Ned,  there  is  but  one  place  to  put  this  money 

until  we  can  act.     It  is  in  a  small  cave  under 
261 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

the  river  bluff.  Let  us  drive  to  the  Slant- 
ing Rock." 

Where  the  bold  little  river  cuts  through 
the  solid  limestone  at  a  bend  just  east  of 
the  town,  a  huge  rock,  ages  and  ages  ago, 
perhaps,  fell  from  the  cliff  above  and  plunged 
diagonally  into  the  river.  Its  base  resting 
half-way  across  the  river  down  amid  the 
mussels  in  their  pearl  caskets,  its  top  fallen, 
but  resting  on  the  river's  bluff,  often  con- 
cealed from  view  by  high  water,  it  makes  a 
dangerous  and  fatal  suck-hole  and  maelstrom 
under  which  the  water  rushes  with  terrific 
force.  Here  many  a  bold  swimmer  in  the 
past,  to  my  own  knowledge,  had  lost  his  life, 
and  here  I  had  often  loved  to  sit  and  listen  to 
the  roar  of  the  water,  grumbling  sullenly  at 
the  indignity  offered  it,  in  being  forced  to  pass 
under  the  yoke  of  this  giant  tyrant  from  the 
hills. 

There  was  a  small  and  utterly  secluded  cave 
in  the  rocks  above.  Wild  vines  and  lichen 
grew  over  its  mouth,  and  in  wet  weather  a 
tiny  spring  trickled  down  into  the  river.  The 

money  there  would  be  safe,  known  to   but 
262 


The  Blind  Detective 

two,  and  in  vaults  that  knew  not  fire  nor 
thieves.  The  Blind  Man  was  holding  the  box 
until  1  found  the  little  cave.  I  had  stood  for  a 
moment  just  above  the  river  where  the  Slant- 
»  ing  Rock  lay,  on  a  slight  projection  of  stone 
and  clay.  The  moon  was  just  setting,  and  the 
clouds  had  banked  grimly  in  the  West,  throw- 
ing fantastic  shadows  across  the  water,  which, 
owing  to  the  recent  heavy  rains,  rushed  with 
greater  force  and  roared  with  louder  voice  as 
it  whirled  and  dashed  above  and  plunged 
under  the  Slanting  Rock.  I  remember  how 
quickly  I  took  in  the  beauty  of  the  night  and 
the  splendor  of  the  unharnessed  stream.  Just 
across  was  the  little  bridge  that  spanned  Jack- 
son's Spring,  where  once,  in  the  long  ago,  the 
doughty  old  hero  had  stopped  and  quaffed. 
The  fertile  valley  bend  stretched  away  in  front 
where  Schofield's  army  thundered  across  in 
its  retreat  to  Nashville,  and  here,  on  the 
bluff  where  I  stood,  Hood's  batteries  had  sent 
screaming,  defiant  shells  into  the  Northern 
ranks.  The  top  of  the  old  mill  rose  above  the 
cliffs  still  further  up  the  stream,  and  the  glitter 

of  the  sheen  of  silver  water  could  be  seen  as 
263 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

it  rolled  over  the  dam  like  a  web  of  finest  silk 
from  the  great  loom  of  waters  beyond.  Per- 
haps the  picture  made  such  an  impression  on 
me  because  it  came  so  near  being  the  last. 

I  heard  the  Blind  Man  say, 

"  Be  careful,  Ned — you  may  make  a  mis- 
step " — and  before  I  realized,  I  had  fallen  into 
the  water.  My  right  arm  was  numbed  by  the 
fall,  my  left  side  appeared  weak  and  helpless. 
The  suck-pool  caught  me  up  as  if  I  had  been  a 
feather,  and  shot  me  towards  the  death-trap 
in  the  Slanting  Rock.  I  remember  only  a  silent 
prayer,  the  vision  of  a  fair  neck  with  a  little 
locket  around  it.  1  struggled,  but  I  was  help- 
less. 

"  Ned  !  Ned  !"  I  heard  him  exclaim  as  he 
rushed  coatless  to  the  water's  edge. 

"Here!  Here!"  I  shouted  as  the  suck- 
pool  spun  me  around — around  and  around  as 
a  lion  would  play  with  a  mouse. 

I  heard  a  splash  in  the  river  just  as  my  hand 
went  up  and  clutched  a  point  in  the  Slanting 
Rock,  and  though  the  swirling  water  carried 
my  body  out  and  around^— around  and  around — 

until  it  seemed  that  my  grip  would  be  wrested 
264 


The  Blind  Detective 

from  the  rock,  I  still  held  on  and  shouted, 
"Here!  Here!"  in  answer  to  the  "Ned! 
Ned  !"  that  came  to  me  over  the  water. 

The  Blind  Man  was  a  capital  swimmer  and 
an  athlete  in  strength,  but  he  swam  in  the 
dark.  He  breasted  the  waves  and  dashed  the 
whirlpool  from  him  as  if  it  had  been  a  seashore 
bath,  and  as  he  battled  with  and  breasted  it 
his  cheery  voice  rang  out  anon,  "  Ned  !  Ned  !" 
— and  I  answered  back  and  clung  for  life. 

Twice  he  went  past  me  in  the  dark — twice 
I  saw  the  waters  whirl  him  around  as  if  he  had 
been  a  straw,  and  then  his  great  strength 
would  tell,  and  he  would  right  about  as  a  ship 
in  a  gale.  But  it  was  a  midnight  battle  with 
him — a  blind  fight  in  blind  waters — and  even 
in  my  peril,  expecting  every  moment  to  be 
swept  into  the  jaws  of  the  Slanting  Rock,  the 
superb  heroism  of  those  blind  eyes,  struggling 
sightless  and  without  a  chart  amid  rocks  that 
threatened  his  life,  in  waters  that  tried  his 
strength,  all  to  save  my  own  life,  came  over 
me  with  a  wave  of  admiration  that  made  me 
grip  yet  more  tightly  the  rock  and  call  back 

in  the  dark—"  Here  !    Here,  I  am  !" 

265 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

1  was  lying  on  the  Slanting  Rock  when  I 
remembered  again,  and  the  Blind  Man  was 
sitting  by  my  side  with  his  finger  on  my  pulse. 

"  A  narrow  escape  for  us  both,"  he  said,  as 
he  helped  me  to  rise.  "  I  have  been  in  that 
hole  before,  when  I  could  see  where  I  was 
swimming,  but  that  swim  in  the  dark — that 
thought  that  you  had  been  swept  under  this 
rock  and  it  was  useless " 

The  last  rays  of  a  golden  moon,  setting  over 
the  river's  bluff,  lit  up  his  face  with  a  light  that 
seemed  not  of  earth,  but  of  heaven.  Then 
he  laughed  merrily  and  shook  the  water  from 
his  locks.  I  looked  up  into  his  face  as  we 
arose  to  go,  and  to  this  day  I  have  never  seen 
the  moon  go  down 

"  Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 
And  sinking  into  the  sea," 

but  1  have  instinctively  looked  into  the  skies 
above,  since  I  can  no  longer  see  it  on  earth, 
and  there  beheld  again  that  brave,  unselfish 
face,  and  around  it  a  holy  hero-light  that  shalJ 
never  die. 

"  And  forever  and  forever, 
As  long  as  the  river  flows, 
266 


The  Blind  Detective 

As  long  as  the  heart  has  passion, 
As  long  as  life  has  woes ; 

"  The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection, 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 
As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heavtn, 
And  its  wavering  image  here." 


THE  PICTURE  OF  A  ROSE. 

'"pHOU  art  the  dream  of  Nature  when  she 
1      sleeps 
And  dreams  of  youth-time  and  sweet  April's 

eyes, 
And  slumbering  now,  lo !   round  her  breast 

there  creeps 

This  pictured  vision  of  departed  skies  ; — 
Departed  skies,  concaved,  with  clouds  of  snow, 
Cerulean  depthed  that  left  us  long  ago. 

And  thou  art    Nature's  memory  when  she 

wakes, 
All  conscience-clear  and  weeping  o'er  the 

past, 

Clear  visioned,  keen,  her  yearning  soul  par- 
takes 

Of  that  which  was,  but  was  too  pure  to  last. 
And  so  she  holds,  with  soft  light  breaking 

low, — 
Holds  to  her  heart  the  hopes  of  long  ago. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

ACROSS  the  pike  from  Lynwood  is  the 
cottage  home  of  my  neighbor,  Mr.  Trux- 
ton.  He  is  a  nurseryman,  and  his  apple  and 
pear  orchard  is  now  yellow  and  red  with  ripen- 
ing fruit.  I  always  liked  Truxton,  a  quiet, 
gentle  fellow,  with  ways  like  an  old  maid, 
and  as  prim  and  as  neat.  His  was  a  small 
farm,  but  everything  about  it  was  well  kept. 
Professions  to  me  have  always  indicated  the 
character  and  nature  of  the  man  who  practices 
them.  I  will  go  a  step  farther  even  than 
Horace,  in  his  beautiful  first  Ode,  where  he 
tells  us  that  you  could  not  tempt  him  "who 
delights  to  cut  with  his  hoe  his  patrimonial 
fields  "  to  become  a  timorous  sailor  and  cross 
the  seas,  by  adding  that  both  the  farmer's  and 
the  sailor's  choice  of  occupation  was  more 
the  effect  than  the  cause  of  character.  And 
that  even  the  hunter,  "  unmindful  of  his 

271 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

tender  spouse  "  and  he  "whom  it  delights  to 
have  collected  Olympic  dust  in  the  chariot- 
race,"  aye,  even  he  "  who  despises  not  cups  of 
old  Massic," — all,  like  water,  have  risen  or 
fallen  in  occupation  to  the  level  of  their  char- 
acter. No  money-lender  was  ever  heartily  a 
'physician  ;  no  poet  a  lawyer ;  no  soldier  a 
merchant. 

And  so  I  knew  Truxton  was  a  good  man  by 
his  pear  orchard,  and  a  quiet,  honest  one  by 
his  apple  orchard.  I  knew  he  loved  good 
books  and  birds  by  his  currant  and  cherry 
trees.  I  knew  he  was  romantic  by  the  way  he 
planted  his  strawberry-beds.  In  fact,  I  knew 
he  loved  all  nature  because  he  planted  fruit 
trees,  and  all  men  because  they  bore  fruit  for 
them.  And  here  is  a  thought  that  is  beautiful 
to  me :  that  years  after  we  are  dead,  by  an 
act  of  ours  in  life  we  may  still  give,  through 
the  trees  we  have  planted,  sweet  gifts  to  those 
who  shall  come  after  us  ;  that  year  after  year, 
the  trees  we  have  tended  and  nursed  and 
reared  shall  live  on,  and  drop  into  the  lap  of 
each  generation  luscious,  golden-bowled  me- 
mentoes from  a  hand  that  is  still. 
272 


The  Picture  of  a  Rose 

And  how  easy  it  is  to  do  this,  to  help  others 
after  we  are  gone.  If  we  were  selfish  enough 
to  desire  it,  could  we  design  a  way  to  make 
mankind  remember  us  more  surely  ?  Who  has 
ever  plucked  a  peach  from  a  tree  and  failed  to 
wonder  who  planted  the  tree  ?  Who  has  eaten 
a  cherry  and  been  so  selfish  as  not  to  care  to 
know  the  name  of  the  thoughtful  giver  of  the 
gift  ?  Let  him  stop  and  think.  Was  ever  such 
sweet  fame  from  books  or  battles  ?  Was  ever 
immortality  so  easily  earned  in  any  other  way  ? 
A  generous  thought,  a  spade,  a  few  moments  of 
pleasant  labor, — years  afterward  and  a  thou- 
sand cherries  drop  plump  into  rosy-cheeked 
mouths,  a  hundred  apples,  year  after  year,  are 
hid  away  in  urchin  pockets.  And  from  the  un- 
known land  where  our  own  spirits  dwell,  will 
not  the  russet  and  red  of  their  bright  earthly 
cheeks  add  even  a  richer  glow  to  our  spiritual 
ones  ?  For  at  last,  when  we  come  to  die,  the 
thing  with  us  is  not  how  much  we  have  done 
for  God — who  really  needs  nothing  at  our  hands 
— as  how  much  we  have  done  for  his  children, 
our  fellow-men.  And  so  1  think  it  is  better  to 

found  a  nursery  than  a  new  sect.   I  had  rather 
1 8  273 


plant  cherries  than  discord — peaches  than 
political  parties.  I  had  rather  write  flowers 
than  poems — preach  apples  than  sermons. 
For  an  orchard  in  bloom  is  a  poem,  and  an 
orchard  ripe  is  a  sermon. 

I  remember  last  Spring,  when  all  of  Mr. 
Truxton's  acres  of  apples  were  in  bloom,  I  rode 
over  and  through  them,  just  at  sunset.  Was 
ever  anything  so  beautiful  ?  As  far  as  the  eye 
could  see  it  was  banks  and  banks  of  blossoms, 
billows  and  billows  of  pink  and  white  and 
green,  until  I  felt  as  though  I  was  a-sail  in  a  sea  of 
sapphire,  under  snowy  floating  clouds  streaked 
with  the  purple  of  the  sleepy  setting  sun  ;  and 
the  wind  came  over  the  sea  of  them  as  from 
the  vales  of  a  flowered  port  where  memory 
hides  her  sweetest  things.  I  was  lost  in  an 
ocean  of  flowers.  I  was  buried  in  a  sea  of 
bloom.  1  rode  to  a  neighboring  hill  and  looked 
down,  and  there  in  a  valley,  shut  in  by  ever- 
green hills,  a  mighty,  unseen  hand  had  gath- 
ered a  gigantic  handful  of  flowers  and  placed 
them  in  an  emerald  bowl. 

I  learned  while  I  was  ill  that  Mr.  Truxton 

had  been  at  Lynwood  a  great  deal  of  late ; 
274 


The  Picture  of  a  Rose 

Indeed,  since  being  informed  of  it,  I  remember 
in  a  vague  way  seeing  him  one  night  gazing 
at  me  in  his  quiet  fashion  as  he  stood  by  my 
bedside.  Miss  Cynthia  was  standing  near 
him.  I  think  it  was  the  time  I  came  so  near 
dying.  It  must  have  been  a  dream,  surely — 
at  least  that  was  always  the  part  that  troubled 
me — anyway,  she  seemed  to  have  her  hands 
in  his,  and  as  she  looked  at  me — dying,  as  she 
thought — she  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and 
wept. 

I  was  reminded  of  all  this  one  day  by  seeing 
Truxton  strolling  leisurely  across  the  lawn, 
then  up  to  the  porch.  In  his  pockets  were 
a  half-dozen  rosy-red  wine-saps.  Miss  Cynthia 
did  not  know  I  was  at  the  window,  and  she 
went  to  meet  him.  As  she  did  so  she  looked 
across  and  saw  me  watching  her  with  an 
amused  smile.  Then  she  turned  as  red  as  one 
of  the  wine-saps  itself. 

I  heard  them  whispering  awhile  in  the  hall, 
and  then  it  all  came  to  me,  and  I  wondered 
at  my  stupidity.  I  became  so  interested  and 
excited  I  think  I  even  laughed  to  myself. 

They  whispered  and  whispered,  and  I  knew  it 
275 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

meant  that  they  had  decided  that  I  must  know 
it  all,  and  this  whispering  was  the  council  of 
war — nay,  rather  the  rolling  of  this  wooden 
horse  into  my  unsuspecting  fortress. 

After  a  while  they  walked  in  very  soberly, 
Miss  Cynthia  leading  and  looking  very  rosy 
and  interesting.  In  fact  she  carried  apples  in 
her  hands  and  in  her  cheeks.  But  I  was 
amused  at  Truxton  and  the  Sunday-school, 
pious,  yet  determined  look  he  carried  on  his 
face.  He  halted  in  the  doorway,  then  turned 
pale.  Then  he  rushed  at  a  chair  and  turned 
red.  Then  he  stammered  a  salutation  and 
plumped  down  into  the  chair. 

I  had  noticed  before  that  he  never  perspired 
save  in  one  spot,  a  perfectly  round  bald  one, 
on  the  extreme  top  of  his  head,  from  which  the 
hair  gradually  receded  in  all  directions  with  a 
regularity  and  evenness  that  was  a  geometri- 
cal wonder  to  have  been  chance.  He  mopped 
that  spot  vigorously  with  his  handkerchief. 
Now  whenever  Mr.  Truxton  did  that  I  knew 
he  was  warm.  It  was  evident  he  had  been 
posted  to  speak  first,  for  Miss  Cynthia  only 

looked  at  him  and  kept  turning  redder. 
276 


The  Picture  of  a  Rose 

The  thing  was  contagious,  and  I  felt  that  I 
was  beginning  to  blush  for  them  myself. 

"I — I — never — was  much  at  telling  such 
things" — said  Mr.  Truxton,  apparently  talk- 
ing to  Miss  Cynthia,  but  intending  it  for  me. 

"  But  you  must — er — er  Da — vid  !" — with 
a  jerk  and  gasp  for  breath  in  which  the 
"  David  "  came  with  such  startling  sudden- 
ness as  to  cause  that  good  little  gentleman 
to  jump  from  his  chair,  and,  as  he  always  did 
when  he  did  not  know  what  else  to  do,  he 
began  to  hunt  in  his  pocket  for  the  illustrated 
catalogue  of  his  fruit  trees. 

Having  pronounced  the  name,  as  in  duty 
bound,  Miss  Cynthia  drew  a  long  breath  and 
looked  relieved.  The  opportunity  to  tease 
was  too  great  for  me  to  resist. 

"  I  never  should  have  suspected  it  of  you, 
Miss  Cynthia,"  I  said.  "  Not  that  you  will 
not  have  my  assent  and  congratulations — both 
of  you — but  you,  Miss  Cynthia,  of  all  women  ! 
— How  in  the  world  did  it  happen  and  I  not  find 
it  out  ?" 

She  came  over  very  graciously  and  sat  down 
by  my  side.  Then  she  very  tenderly  took 
277 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

my  hand  in  hers.  There  was  moisture  in  her 
eyes  when  she  looked  at  me  and  said, 

"  It  all  began,  Ned,  with  the  picture  of  a 
rose." 

This  reminded  Truxton  that  he  must  help 
out.  He  started  again,  visibly,  at  Miss  Cyn- 
thia's remark,  and  began  to  feel  around  in  his 
pockets  for  the  pictures  of  the  fruits  and 
flowers  all  nurserymen  have  to  illustrate  their 
wares.  For  my  part  I  take  no  stock  in  them, 
for  after  years  of  buying  and  experimenting,  I 
find  that  my  roses  never  look  half  so  gorgeous 
as  the  pictured  one,  nor  my  fruit  so  beautiful 
and  large  as  those  they  are  supposed  to  grow 
up  to  and  resemble. 

Mr.  Truxton  nervously  unfolded  his  leaves 
of  roses.  He  hung  over  a  chair  the  picture  of 
a  crimson  beauty,  budding  with  an  aroma  one 
might  almost  detect  even  on  paper. 

"  The  Miss  Cynthia — er — er — ahem! — color, 
clear  bright  carmine — very  large  and  finely 
shaped  —  well  formed  —  exquisitely  so — er — 
ahem  !"  the  original  was  visibly  embarrassed 
and  had  turned  away  her  head — "  with  a  per- 
fume exceedingly  delicate  and  fresh — ahem  !" 
278 


The  Picture  of  a  Rose 

"  You  see,  Ned,"  said  Miss  Cynthia,  "we 
needed  some  new  roses  in  the  garden,  and  I 
asked  Mr.  Truxton  to  come  over  with  his 
samples.  Now  wasn't  it  strange  that  the  very 
one  he  selected  had  my  name,  and  that  he 
should  have  said  all  these  charming  things 
about  it?" 

"  A  very  fine  rose,"  went  on  Truxton 
professionally — "a  very  fine,  old-fashioned 
rose " 

"  I  was  never  more  astonished  in  my  whole 
life/'  whispered  Miss  Cynthia. 

"Grafted  from  a  famous  stock  of  red  roses 
which  grew  so  profusely  in  the  South  before 
the  war,"  he  went  on.  "The  old  stock  not 
quite  hardy  enough  for  Tennessee  winters, 
and  not  as  productive  of  buds  in  season  as  de- 
manded by  the  climate " 

"I  felt  so  sorry  for  him,  Ned,"  she  whis- 
pered, "  it  seemed  so  hopeless  of  him " 

"  And  so  after  years  of  trying,  experiment- 
ing, hard  work,  aye,  even  of  yearnings,  to  pro- 
duce a  new  rose " 

"  Wasn't  that  just  pitiful,  Ned  ? — such  con- 
stancy ! — such  devotion  !" 
279 


A  Summer  Hymnal 


"  This  one  rewarded  me- 


"  How  could  I  help  it,  Ned  ?" 

"  By  bursting  into  bloom  one  day " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  never  forget  that  sweet,  sweet 
day,"  said  Miss  Cynthia  laying  her  hand 
affectionately  on  his  shoulder. 

"  For  all  my  years  of  work  and  devotion." 

"  And  did  he  not  deserve  it,  Ned  ?" 

"  So  that  now,"  went  on  Mr.  Truxton,  "  1 
have  a  rose " 

The  rose  blushed  becomingly. 

"  Which — er — er — which — "  he  stammered, 
but  still  professionally,  "  is  guaranteed,  Mr. 
Ballington,  with  proper  cultivation  to  produce 
more  buds  —  er  —  er " 

"Da— vid!" 

He  mopped  his  bald  spot  in  great  confu- 
sion. 

"  But  1  must  be  quite  frank  about  this  rose," 
he  went  on  ;"  it  is  a  little  peculiar  and  requires 
delicate  handling " 

"Now  David — you  know  that  is  exag- 
gerated and  I  am  not  at  all  peculiar." 

"  During  the  first  part  of  its  growth,  and, 

later,  it  will  be  deficient  in   robustness,  un- 
280 


The  Picture  of  a  Rose 

satisfactory  in  growth — reserved — so  to  speak, 
you  know " 

Miss  Cynthia  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"Wasn't  it  just  too  lovely  of  him,  Ned,  to 
say  all  of  those  things  about  me  !  And  it  all 
started  with  that  picture  of  a  rose.  He  told 
me  all  of  that  the  first  time  he  came  over  here 
—all  of  those  lovely  things.  Of  course  I 
ordered  ten,  Ned,"  she  added  in  a  practical 
way — "the  older  roses  were  nearly  all  killed 
last  winter.  I  ordered  ten,  and  told  him  he 
must  come  over  and  set  one  out  each  day.  I 
wouldn't  agree  to  pay  him,  Ned,"  she  whis- 
pered, "  until  he  agreed  to  come  over  and  set 
them  out  himself.  Now,  David,"  she  blushed 
and  said  to  Truxton,  "tell  him  about  your 
next  visit  when  you  came  to  set  them  out. 
Listen,  Ned." 

"  This  rose  needs  most  careful  transplanting 
and  cultivation,"  he  went  on.  "  I  alone  seem 
to  understand  just  how  to  do  it — natural,  you 
know,  since  I  originated  it." 

"Yes,  yes — David — of  course — we  under- 
stand." 

"  The  plants  must  be  a  little  aged  before 
281 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

attempting  it — a  little  aged — but  age  adds  to 
their  beauty,  when — when— er — er — the  roses 
come,  you  know  ?" 

"Beautiful — so  beautiful" — whispered  Miss 
Cynthia — "  and  remember,  Ned,  he  told  me 
that  every  day  for  ten  days  before  I  would 
give  him  any  satisfaction.  Oh,  I  despise  my- 
self when  I  think  how  obstinate  I  was !" 

Mr.  Truxton  ceased.  We  waited  awhile, 
but  he  did  not  begin  again. 

"And  so  you  came  every  day,  David, 
didn't  you,  to  see  about  it?"  went  on  Miss 
Cynthia—"  You  know  you  guaranteed  them  to 
live,  David." 

"  I  guarantee  all  my  trees  and  flowers  to 
live,"  he  said. 

"  And  one  day  you  told  me,  David,  that 
you  had  named  that  rose  for  me,  because  it 
was  so  like  me  in  every  way " 

"  In  every  way,"  he  repeated. 

"  And  one  beautiful  afternoon,  just  at  sun- 
set, when  we  found  the  first  blossom,  and  you 
said — and  you  said  " — stammered  and  blushed 
Miss  Cynthia— "  that  1 " 

He  came  over  by  her  and  took  her  hand, 
282 


The  Picture  of  a  Rose 

"  That  you  were  lovelier  and  sweeter  than 
the  rose,  dear ;  and  that  although  I  loved  it  be- 
cause it  was  my  very  own,  that  I  had  made 
it  and  propagated  it  and  claimed  its  very  exist- 
ence and  its  being,  but  that " 

He  waited — his  eyes  sought  hers.  They 
met  his,  and  in  the  meeting  I  saw  Miss  Cyn- 
thia, as  I  had  known  her,  pass  quite  away  and 
out  of  the  world.  In  her  place  was  a  happy- 
visioned,  radiant-eyed  creature  into  whose  life 
had  come  the  sunlight  of  love. 

"But  that" — she  whispered  after  awhile. 

His  bashfulness  and  professional  ways  had 
gone.  Love  had  worked  its  miracle  in  him, 
too.  O  divinest  of  miracles ! — O  true  fountain 
of  perpetual  youth  ! 

He  was  not  a  nurseryman  any  longer,  but  a 
lover.  And  she — was  an  angel. 

They  sat  holding  hands,  oblivious  even  of 
me.  Had  1  been  able  I  should  have  left  them 
thus,  for  what  followed  seemed  too  sacred  for 
any  ears  but  theirs.  His  voice  sank  low  and 
tender. 

"  But  that,"  he  finally  said,  "  if  the  original 
would  give  me  the  sweet  privilege,  I  would 
283 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

love  and   cherish  her  even  more — and — and 


"  And  if  she  would  " — she  took  it  up — 
"  would  she  pin  this,  the  first  rose  of  their 
together  nourished  vine,  in  his  button-hole, 
and " 

They  ceased,  and  Truxton  took  tenderly 
from  an  envelope  in  his  pocket  the  faded  rose 
which  she  had  pinned  over  his  heart. 

And  that  is  the  story  of  their  love — a  love 
which,  though  coming  into  both  their  lives  after 
the  sun-spots  on  the  floor  had  long  passed  the 
noon-mark,  lit  them,  therefore,  not  with  the 
garishness  of  noonday,  but  with  the  tenderer 
romance  of  evening  and  the  sacred  starlight. 


THE  UNPAGED  RACE. 

OIT'S  Masses  in  de  pud'n, 
An'  it's  sugar  in  de  cake, 
An'  it's  kissin'  till  you  cud'n — 
Sorter  dreamin',  yet  awake, 
When  de  sulky  'gins  to  glide  it 

An'  you  feel  de  feelin'  cum 
When  de  slippers  'gin  to  slide  it, 
An*  de  wheels  begin  to  hum — 
An'  de  wheels  begin  to  hum — 
'Gin  to  hum — hum — hum — 
An'  de  wheels  begin  to  hum. 

O  it's  'taters  round  de  possum, 

An'  it's  gravy  in  de  pot, 
An'  it's  yaller-gals  in  blossom, 

An*  it's  Charley  on  de  spot — 
When  de  hoofs  begin  to  patter 

Lak  de  fiddle  an'  de  drum, 
An*  yo'  blues  begin  to  scatter 

When  de  wheels  begin  to  hum — 

When  de  wheels  begin  to  hum — 
285 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

'Gin  to  hum — hum — hum—- 
An' de  wheels  begin  to  hum. 

Sum  lak  to  sail  de  oshun, 
Sum  to  hump  it  on  a  wheel — 

Ev'ry  man  unto  his  noshun, 
Ev'ry  ship  unto  its  keel ; 

But  lem'me  own  a  pacer, 
An'  when  de  summons  cum 

Lem'me  go  behind  a  racer 
When  de  wheels  begin  to  hum- 
When  de  wheels  begin  to  hum- 
'Gin  to  hum — hum — hum — 
An'  de  wheels  begin  to  hum. 


2S6 


CHAPTER   XX. 

IT  was  six  o'clock  one  afternoon — I  shall 
never  forget  that  day — when  I  went  to  the 
station  to  see  Marjorie  off  to  the  races.  It  was 
a  rich  stake — ten  thousand  dollars — in  which 
she  was  entered,  but  I  knew  it  was  ours  if 
ever  this  wonderful  filly  turned  her  face  to 
the  starter.  For  her  speed  was  phenomenal, 
her  gameness  equalled  only  by  her  rich  blood- 
lines, and  she  went  like  a  horse  with  a  heart 
in  her.  I  myself  had  timed  her  miles  at  a  rate 
I  dared  not  tell,  but  it  had  swept  me  off  my 
feet.  I  knew  that  in  her  class  there  was  noth- 
ing in  all  the  world  that  could  beat  her. 

How  beautiful  she  looked  that  afternoon, 
her  form  taking  on  the  joyous  fever  of  the  ex- 
citement, her  limbs  like  the  marbled  ones  of  the 
Greek  horses  on  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon — 
her  whole  being  keyed  to  the  subtle  nicety 

and  balanced  equipoise  of  a  steel-strung  ma- 
287 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

chine — a  racing  machine,  indeed,  and  one 
without  a  flaw. 

The  trainer  stood  smiling  at  the  car  door. 

Old  Wash,  who  was  to  go  with  her,  had 
proudly  led  her  in,  and  stood  with  his  pockets 
full  of  apples,  giving  her  one  occasionally,  and 
soothing  the  sensitive  creature  for  the  start  of 
the  car,  stroking  her  chestnut  crest  with  a  faith- 
ful old  hand  that,  in  days  gone  by — slave  days 
and  free  days — had  grasped  so  often  the 
burden  of  duty  and  carried  it  so  unselfishly. 
It  was  a  hard  black  hand,  it  is  true,  but  it  was 
faithful  and  honest,  and  in  its  rough  grip  more 
gentleness  dwelt,  more  truth  and  honor  lay, 
than  in  many  another  of  softer  parts  and 
finer  turn.  For  it  had  been  blackened  like  the 
roots  of  the  black-oak — twisted  and  hardened, 
gnarled  and  knotted  in  the  primal  fight  for 
life  with  the  elements  of  nature.  But  uncouth 
and  unbeautiful  as  it  was,  it  had  borne  its  full 
burden  in  the  fight  of  civilization  and  the  battle 
of  the  brave.  And  so  it  was  misshapen  and 
its  joints  were  large  from  strain  and  toil,  and 
the  veins  ran  through  it  like  the  channels  of  a 

stream  deep  cut,  and  it  was  sloughed  in  like 
288 


The  Unpaced  Race 

the  turn  of  the  plow-handle,  and  set  in  like  the 
grip  of  an  ax-helm,  and  was  deep  set  and 
scarred.  But  if,  that  day,  there  had  come  a 
deep  upheaval  of  the  earth  in  the  fusion  of 
rock  and  matter,  and  this  hand,  of  all  earth's 
civilization,  had  alone  left  its  imprint  there 
to  be  read  eons  of  ages  hence  by  beings  of 
enlightenment  and  light  in  the  museum  of  a 
higher  civilization,  well  might  it  stand,  im- 
bedded in  some  kindred  block  of  stone,  not 
to  point  the  name  and  lineage  of  some  pre- 
historic animal,  nor  even  the  hand  of  a  savage 
in  the  jungles  of  an  earlier  earth-life,  but 
through  all  the  ages  of  all  time  it  would  stand 
as  the  track  of  Duty  in  the  Man  age  of  the 
earth. 

Now  it  gently  stroked  the  filly's  cheek. 
We  stood  around  in  a  group,  each  silently  ad- 
miring her.  The  trainer's  practiced  eye  ran 
over  her  form,  then  he  ran  his  thumb  and 
finger  down  the  tendons  of  her  hard,  flat  legs. 
He  pressed  with  his  thumbs  her  deep-set,  slop- 
ing sides,  and  the  flesh  rebounded  under  his 
touch  like  solid  rubber. 

"Three  heats  better  than  2.10  on  a  half- 
19  289 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

mile  track,  yesterday,  and  she  but  a  three- 
year-old,"  he  said  admiringly— r"  we  will  bring 
home  the  purse  and  the  world's  record,  Mr. 
Ballington." 

"  An'  we  won't  come  home  till  mornin1, 
An'  we  ain't  gwi'  walk  at  all !" 

sang  old  Wash. 

"She  will  have  a  plucky  field  to  battle 
with,"  I  suggested. 

"  I  know  them  all,"  went  on  her  driver — 
"they  are  good,  but  not  one  of  them  can  pace 
it  in  2.10." 

"  They  are  good,"  he  continued,  "  but  this 
mare  is  phenomenal — she  has  got  them  at  her 
mercy.  We  will  pull  out  at  ten  o'clock," 
and  he  looked  at  his  watch.  "No,  Wash," 
he  laughed — "  we  will  not  walk  home,  not  if 
she  lives  to  score  down  for  the  word."  And  so 
we  stood  in  a  group  around  her,  and  no  queen 
of  society  ever  received  more  gracefully.  I 
could  see  it  all,  and  so  plainly — the  shouting 
grand  stand,  the  flying  filly  out-footing  her 
field  and  coming  in  to  fame  and  fortune.  I 

could  feel  it  all,  and  so  keenly — I,  who  had  bred 
290 


The  Unpaced  Race 

and  raised  her.  My  own  pride  and  joy — that 
keen  satisfaction  that  comes  to  but  few  who 
rear  race  horses  and  who  love  them  for  the 
nobility  of  the  animal — that  comes  to  but  few, 
and  that,  perhaps,  but  once  in  a  life  time. 

I  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  unpaced  races 
were  the  real  races  of  our  lives.  And  yet, 
how  often  we  spend  life  training  for  the 
great  race  of  the  future — which  never  comes 
off — struggling,  hardening,  exerting,  deny- 
ing ourselves  for  battles  we  are  never  to 
know,  for  victories  we  are  never  to  win. 
Planning  for  the  time  when  our  colors  shall 
show  first  at  the  front  and  the  plaudits  of  the 
world  be  ours.  Struggling,  training  on.  And 
after  the  years  have  passed,  after  the  day 
when  the  great  battle  and  great  victory  was 
to  have  been,  then  it  is  that  we  look  back  in 
wonder  at  the  real  races  of  our  lives — the  un- 
paced races  we  have  won.  And  we  wonder 
the  more  when  we  see  that  we  have  won 
them  in  our  seeming  unpreparedness — pitched 
headlong  into  the  unexpected  fray  of  the  pres- 
ent we  have  found  the  faith  and  strength  of 

the  day  equal  to  the  need  of  it,  and  so,  look- 
291 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

ing  ever  to  the  great  battle  of  the  future,  One 
has  led  us,  for  the  faith  and  earnestness  that 
was  in  us,  to  win  the  real  victories  of  the  past. 

The  unpaced  race — how  uncertain,  how 
real ! 

For  the  next  instant  a  carriage  drove  hastily 
up  and  I  saw  the  Blind  Man  beckoning  to  me. 

When  I  reached  the  carriage  door  he  almost 
pulled  me  in  as  he  said,  excitedly, 

"  I  have  looked  for  you  for  two  hours — read 
it,  Ned — read  it,  quick  !" 

I  took  the  note  he  handed  me — a  crumpled 
one  from  Thesis.  At  sight  of  the  well-known 
handwriting  I  felt  the  blood  rush  through  my 
heart.  It  was  a  minute  before  I  could  open  it 
— it  was  another  minute  more  before  I  could 
read, 

"  Tent! — Tern  I  Come  take  me  and  save  me  ! 
—your  poor  distracted  little  girl  1  The  TSanh  is 
to  fail  to-morrow  and  Uncle  to  be  a  felon  if  I 
do  not  marry  him.  I  have  no  one  on  earth  to 
appeal  to  but  you.  If  you  do  not  come  by  ten 
to-night,  I  fear " 

I  could  read  no  more.     I  threw  the   note 

down.   The  Blind  Man  was  looking  at  me  with 
292 


The  Unpaced  Race 

blanched  cheeks.    Then  there  swept  over  his 
face  such  a  joy  as  !  had  never  seen  before. 

"  Go  !"   1  cried.     "  For  God's  sake  go  !" 

My  voice  seemed  to  arouse  him.  I  was  be- 
side myself  with  impatience,  but  I  watched 
him  closely.  For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  but 
only  for  a  moment.  For  a  moment  the  halo 
of  joy  lingered  around  his  brow,  ending  in  the 
span  of  a  rainbow  in  his  sightless  eyes.  For 
a  moment  I  saw  the  same  light  shine  there  I 
had  once  seen  in  the  shadow  of  a  church  door. 
Then  it  passed  like  a  chastened  beam  of  sun- 
set reaching  out  and  upward  into  the  realms 
of  night. 

He  took  my  hand.  All  the  excitement,  all 
the  doubt,  all  the  haste  were  gone. 

"  Ned — dear  Ned — if  you  love  me,  it  you 
love  her  as  I  know  you  do.  Go  !  and  God  be 
with  you  !" 

I  scarcely  knew  what  I  did  except  that  I 
sprang  from  the  carriage  and  rushed  to  the 
ticket  office.  But  the  six  o'clock  train  had 
already  passed. 

I  rushed  back  only  to  find  the  carriage 
gone. 

293 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

There  was  nothing  else  to  do.  I  went  quickly 
to  the  car  door — the  trainer  had  gone. 

"Wash,  lead  out  the  filly  and  her  racing 
sulky." 

The  old  man  looked  at  me  with  exasperat- 
ing coolness  I  thought ;  then,  when  he  realized, 
he  stammered, 

"  For  heaben  sake,  Young  Marster — what 
you  mean  ?" 

"1  must  drive  her  to  Nashville,"  I  said, 
"and  drive  her  there  in  two  hours." 

The  old  man  drew  himself  up  and  shouted 
indignantly, 

"1  belonged  to  yo'  grandfather,  I  raised 
yo'  father  an'  I  nussed  you.  I've  nurver 
questioned  de  wurd  of  a  Ballington  nor  dis- 
obeyed enny  order.  But  I'll  look  you  squar' 
in  de  eye  an'  see  you  kill  me  in  my  tracks 
befo'  you  shall  lay  a  hand  on  dis  filly  !" 

"  Wash  !  Wash  !  You  do  not  understand," 
I  cried.  "  It  is  not  for  my  sake — not  for  any 
of  our  sakes — it's  to  save  her!" 

His  countenance  changed.  His  look  went 
through  me — a  look  of  astonishment,  fear  and 

pity.     In  a  moment  he  seemed  to  grasp  it  all. 
194 


The  Unpaced  Race 

Then  he  led  the  filly  out  without  a  word,  threw 
on  the  racing  harness,  buckled  the  shaft-band 
while  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks,  handed 
me  the  reins  as  I  sprang  to  the  seat,  pressed 
my  hand  and  stammered,  between  his  tears, 

"  It  breaks  my  heart  to  see  her  killed  in  dis 
drive— but— but— Little  Glory— Little  Glory 
— ennything  fur  Little  Glory  !" 

As  I  wheeled  away  he  had  taken  off  his  old 
hat  and  dropped  by  the  car  door  in  prayer. 


A  PIKE  OF  BATTLES. 

LEAM  of  bay,  effort  of  fire, 

Will  of  death  and  dumb  desire — 
Onward — onward — to  the  wire. 
Feet  that  falter  not,  nor  heed — 
Soul  of  strength  and  soul  of  speed 
Speed — Speed  !    , 

Gleam  of  bay,  answering  sky, 
Heart  of  hope  and  hero-high — 

Onward — onward — do  or  die  ! 
Form  that  knows  not  blight  nor  blame 

Blazoned  on  the  shield  of  fame 
Fame — Fame ! 


297 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

I  LOOKED  at  my  watch — it  was  just  seven 
as  we  sped  along  the  streets  of  the  town, 
and  in  a  minute  more  the  iron  bridge  over  the 
Duck  loomed  up  in  the  twilight.  My  face  was 
set,  my  heart  beat  wildly,  my  fingers  seemed 
driven  into  the  reins.  The  hopelessness  of  it 
all  went  through  me  and  fixed  it  as  in  a  seal 
of  fire.  1  saw  everything,  remembered  every- 
thing, even  to  the  drift  of  the  smoke  across  the 
river.  1  was  provoked  with  myself — with 
Marjorie — it  seemed  so  hopeless,  so  desperate 
a  trial  for  us.  Perhaps  1  was  nervous  and  in 
that  stage  when  little  things  worry  most,  but 
I  remember  fretting  because  the  mare  seemed 
to  know  nothing  of  it — nothing  of  the  struggle 
and  strife  ahead,  nothing  of  the  hope  that 
hung  on  her  heels,  nothing  of  the  forty  long 
miles  over  which  she  was  to  be  tested  as  horse 
had  never  been  before,  nothing  of  the  agony 
299 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

at  this  end,  the  doubt  and  despair  at  the  other, 
nothing  of  the  cruelty  of  the  fate  that  lay 
coiled  in  the  fact  that  I,  who  had  reared  and 
loved  her— I,  who  had  cared  for  and  developed 
her — now  must  sit  behind  her — an  executioner 
— and  drive  her  to  her  death. 

She  darted  playfully  from  a  passing  vehicle, 
tossed  her  head  and  sped  away  as  if  she 
thought  it  .was  but  an  evening's  jaunt — an 
exercise  to  unloose  the  limbs  trained  for  higher 
things.  I  felt  like  the  executioner  I  was — my 
heart  sank  with  a  double  sorrow. 

"  God  help  us,  little  mare,"  I  muttered — 
"  God  help  us  and  help  her  !" 

That  cool  air  was  from  the  river.  The  big 
bluffs  threw  the  shadows  across  the  stream, 
and  the  dim  moonlight  that  fell  across  them, 
from  boulder  shadow  and  darkling  peak,  pic- 
tured in  the  depths  of  this  pearl -stream  a 
Switzerland  below,  companion  to  the  one 
above. 

Half-way  across  the  bridge,  the  quaint  old 
cemetery  on  the  river's  bluff,  full  to  overflow- 
ing with  the  shadowy  memories  of  lives  that 

had  been,  was  the  parting  view  I  had  of  home ; 
300 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

and  as  I  thought  of  it  all,  the  drive  before  me, 
the  extremity  which  made  Thesis  make  the 
appeal  she  did,  the  cool  villainy  of  Forde,  the 
unselfishness  of  the  Blind  Man,  I  almost  wished 
that  I,  too,  had  been  laid  away  in  the  old  ceme- 
tery, forever  at  rest  by  the  side  of  the  pearl- 
studded  stream. 

On  the  bridge  Marjorie  shied  at  the  big 
rafters  and  played  fear  again.  Then  she 
thought  she  was  on  a  race  track  and  darted  a 
two-minute  gait  across.  The  sparks  flew  from 
her  steel  shoes  as  she  struck  the  flint  of  the 
Nashville  pike,  and  then  she  struck  a  steady 
pace  that  swept  me  along  as  a  bubble  on  the 
brow  of  a  mill-race.  I  tried  to  take  her  up, 
but  she  plunged  and  fretted. 

"Easy,  sweetheart,  easy  !"  I  whispered. 
"  I  would  not  kill  you  so  soon."  She  grew 
calmer  at  the  sound  of  my  voice,  then  tossed 
her  head  in  the  old  trusting  way  she  had. 
The  very  confidence  of  it  went  through  me 
like  a  stab.  I  felt  sick  with  sorrow  for  her — 
sick  with  the  hopelessness  of  it, — and  before 
I  thought,  I  had  pulled  her  up.  Then,  for  a 
moment,  1  hesitated  as  I  stood  and  watched 
301 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

her  in  the  moonlight — this  beautiful  creature 
of  nerve  and  fire,  giving  her  life  with  a  line 
in  her  mouth,  giving  her  breath  with  a  bit 
in  her  teeth,  trusting  it  all  to  a  hand  and  a 
head  that  would  drive  her  free  and  willing 
spirit  to  death. 

For  a  moment  I  hesitated.  The  long  white 
pike  lay  before  me,  the  blue  shadowy  hills 
rose  beyond,  and  once  more  the  hopelessness 
of  it  all  came  over  me.  I  clenched  my  teeth — 
1  could  scarcely  sit  in  the  sulky.  Coward  that 
I  was,  I  tried  to  turn  her  home  again.  Half- 
way, she  turned,  as  I  hesitatingly  used  the 
line,  then — did  she  know  it  ?— did  she  realize 
it  ? — game  beauty  that  she  was,  she  wheeled 
the  other  way  as  if  scoring  for  the  word,  and 
went  with  a  rush. 

"  God  help  us  little  mare — God  help  us  and 
help  her!" 

My  voice  seemed  to  quiet  her,  and  I  talked 
on.  "A  bitter  drive  it  is,  Marjorie — a  bitter 
drive  and  useless  !  A  race  such  as  neither  of  us 
ever  dreamed  of,  a  battle  no  horse  ever  had 
before.  There  is  death  in  every  mile  of  this 

pike,  for  the  pike  itself  is  a  pike  of  battles. 

302 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

This  was  the  battle-ground  of  the  Confederacy, 
the  turning-point  of  its  destiny.  Here,  on  that 
old  bridge  below,  Buell  made  up  the  hours  that 
saved  Grant's  army  at  Pittsburg  Landing  that 
Sunday  night  on  the  sixth  of  April,  1862, 
which  made  Grant  a  President  instead  of  a 
prisoner,  and  welded  two  sections  into  one 
glorious  nation.  On  what  little  things  do  the 
destiny  of  men  and  nations  seem  to  hang — 
seem  to  hang,  Marjorie,  but  God  sees  all  and 
turns  even  the  straws  of  destiny  with  the 
breath  of  his  silent  lips. 

"  A  pike  of  battles  it  is,  and  every  mile  a 
battle  ground.  Here,  for  four  long  years  Blue 
and  Gray  charged  and  re-charged,  captured 
and  re-captured.  Van  Dorn,  Forest,  Wheeler, 
Hood;  Wilson,  Buell,  Schofield,  Thomas — 
skirmish  and  battle  line,  bullet  and  bloody 
sword,  sabre  and  severed  heads  ;  marching 
and  counter-marching,  dust  and  dying  moan — 
<i  long  white  road  of  rock  and  grinding  metal, 
a  race-track  of  death,  with  the  butchery  of 
Franklin  atone  end  and  the  slaughter  of  Nash- 
ville at  the  other." 

She  was  pacing  steadily  and  true.  We  sped 
3°3 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

by  a  spring  that  ran  from  a  blue  grass  lot  in 
the  edge  of  a  field  by  the  roadside.  "  Jack- 
son's spring,  Marjorie  —  the  memory  of  Old 
Hickory  !  Here  he  rested  and  disbanded  his 
brave  pioneer  soldiers  after  the  Creek  War 
and  the  victory  of  New  Orleans  that  gave 
us  half  a  century  of  peace.  May  we  imbibe 
some  of  his  deathless  spirit  for  the  task  before 
us." 

Along  the  river  bank  we  flew,  the  silent 
stream  lying  asleep,  like  a  great  silver  snake 
in  the  moonlight ;  then  up  the  slope  and  down 
through  the  toll-gate.  The  cool  night  wind 
brought  back  my  calmer  self,  and  I  took  out 
my  watch  to  time  the  miles.  She  heard  the 
watch-spring  snap  and  knew  what  it  meant, 
for  she  flew  away,  thinking  she  was  on  a 
track  and  scoring  for  the  word.  But  I  held 
her  to  a  three-minute  gait,  and  when  she 
reached  Rutherford  Hill  in  just  five  minutes,  I 
pulled  her  to  a  quiet  pace  and  looked  back  for 
the  last  time  on  the  lights  of  the  town  three 
miles  away,  on  the  heights  of  Mount  Parnassus 
crowning  the  town  with  its  huge  round  top,  not 
unlike  the  tiers  of  some  ancient  amphitheater 
304 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

filled  with  the  ghostly  spectators  of  by-gone 
years. 

From  the  top  of  Rutherford  Hill  to  the  top 
of  Mount  Parnassus  above  the  town  is  three 
miles  as  the  crow  flies;  and  between  these  two 
peaks  is  a  valley  as  fertile  as  Poe's  immortal 
bird  ever  flew  over,  with  a  river  flowing 
through  it  as  picturesque  as  it  is  unique.  It 
was  Tuesday,  the  2gth  day  of  November,  1864, 
that  Hood's  starved  but  brave  and  desperate 
army  crossed  the  Duck  River  on  its  raid  into 
this  garden  spot  of  the  South,  from  the  defeats 
of  Atlanta,  with  the  wild  dream  of  wresting  it 
from  the  sturdy  Thomas  at  Nashville.  Scho- 
field,  with  his  picked  army  corps,  had  barely 
time  to  rush  up  from  the  Tennessee,  in  an 
effort  to  fall  back  on  Thomas,  at  Nashville, 
and  barely  escaped  being  cut  off  at  Columbia 
and  Spring  Hill.  But  he  burned  the  bridge  in 
his  rear,  and  here  from  the  peak  of  Parnassus, 
above  the  town,  to  the  peak  of  Rutherford, 
over  the  creek,  an  artillery  duel  was  fought 
that  made  the  valley  hot  with  shells.  Then 
Hood  crossed  two  miles  east  of  town,  at  the 

old  ford,  and  the  march  and  retreat  went  on 
20  305 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

— on  across  this  pike  of  battles,  built  for  a 
pike  of  peace. 

Down  the  long  Rutherford  Hill  Marjorie  would 
speed  but  I  held  her  in.  The  old  covered 
bridge  shook  and  rattled  beneath  the  sturdy 
strokes  of  her  regular  stride,  until  I  feared  it 
would  go  down  with  us.  On — on — we  sped 
over  the  creek  where  Forest  fought,  up  the 
slope  and  away.  I  knew  she  was  now  warm 
and  relaxed,  and  I  let  her  set  the  pace — and 
never  did  mare  enjoy  it  more.  On — on  we 
sped,  past  the  old  Polk  place  where  a  great 
President  spent  his  youth. 

On  a  long  stretch  of  the  pike,  beautiful  and 
quiet  in  shadowy  sleep,  we  passed  by  an  old- 
time  Southern  mansion,  standing  in  a  grove  of 
beech  and  maple  to  the  right. 

"The  Cheairs  place,  Marjorie,"  I  said. 
"Here  on  that  fateful  November  morning 
breakfasted  for  the  last  time  on  earth  Cle- 
burne,  Strahl,  Granbury,  Adams  and  Gist, 
that  matchless  quintet  of  brave  generals  who, 
before  supper,  lay  dead  around  the  breast- 
works of  Franklin,  while  thousands  of  the 

boys  in  Gray  who  marched  that  day  along 
306 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

this  shaded  avenue,  and  thousands  of  those 
in  Blue,  who  fell  back  before  them,  gave 
up  their  lives  with  them.  And  here,  where 
we  now  fly  by,"  I  said,  as  we  passed  a  coun- 
try lane  opening  into  the  pike,  "  is  where 
Hood's  army  should  have  attacked  and  cut  off 
Schofield,  where  the  battle  should  have  been 
fought,  where  Schofield,  his  men  demoralized 
and  falling  back,  his  wagon-train  stretched  out 
for  miles  and  exposed,  should  have  been  cut 
off  and  captured.  Here  is  where  Hood  sent 
orders  for  Cheatham  to  attack, — orders  which 
Cheatham  never  received ;  where  Forest,  ever 
alert,  lay  with  his  bold  cavalry  along  the  pike, 
saw  the  Blue  army  rushing  by  in  confusion, 
and  walked  the  pike  in  rage  and  chagrin.  Let 
us  call  it,  Marjorie,  the  lane  of  Lost  Opportu- 
nities, so  many  of  which  open,  unexpectedly, 
into  the  pike  of  our  lives.  Alas,  for  the  Con- 
federacy— alas,  for  the  things  we  would  to  be, 
but  which  God  wills  otherwise.  For  His  plans 
are  wiser  than  man's  plans,  Marjorie — and  so, 
to-night,  in  the  reunited  strength  of  our  brother- 
hood of  union,  we  weep  and  laugh,  we  sigh 
and  smile  and  see  that  it  is  best." 
3°7 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

It  was  a  level  stretch  to  the  bridge,  then  up 
to  the  top  of  Picnic  Hill.  I  thrust  the  head  of 
a  match  against  the  wheel  as  we  flew  along 
and  glanced  at  my  watch — 7.30  ! 

"The  record,  Marjorie  !  Eleven  miles  in 
thirty  minutes,  up  hill  and  down.  No  living 
horse  has  had  the  speed  and  heart  to  do  that 
before — none  will  ever  do  it  again." 

The  village  of  Spring  Hill  now  lay  at  my 
feet  in  the  moonlight.  Down  the  slope  we 
sped,  passing  an  old  brick  house  standing  to  the 
right  and  away  from  the  road  amid  tangled 
undergrowth  and  gloom.  "Where  General 
Van  Dorn  was  killed,"  I  whispered.  "  It  is  a 
sweet  and  peaceful  village,  now,  Marjorie, 
surrounded  by  this  matchless  country,  and 
resting  here  like  a  high  born  maiden  in  her 
father's  halls  ;  but  many  a  tale  of  blood  it 
could  tell." 

Just  beyond  the  toll-gate  we  passed  the  spot 
where  Forest's  brother  fell,  and  where  the 
great  cavalry  leader  of  the  Confederacy  laid 
down  his  sword  long  enough  to  melt  his  iron 
soul  in  sorrow.  We  dashed  through  the  toll- 
gate  and  up  the  pike.  A  blue-grass  mound 
308 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

was  on  the  left.  I  took  off  my  hat.  "  Hark, 
Marjorie,  to  a  tale  of  our  reunited  country. 
That  blue-grass  mound  tells  it  all.  That  is  the 
grave  of  a  Union  soldier,  washed  up  last  year 
by  a  little  creek  that  flowed  through  that  pad- 
dock. And  his  story  is  this  : 

"  On  the  night  before  the  battle  of  Franklin, 
he  had  been  ordered  to  stand  guard  on  the 
picket  line,  here  on  the  very  outposts  of 
Schofield's  army,  as  Hood  thundered  on  his 
heels,  and  here,  in;the  dark  night,  this  sentinel 
had  given  up  his  life  for  his  country — this 
picket  had  been  'off  duty  forever,'  and  for 
over  thirty  years  he  was  numbered  among  the 
unreturned  dead.  In  the  morning,  when 
Hood's  army  marched  by  to  Franklin,  he  had 
been  rudely  thrown  into  a  sink-hole,  by  the 
side  of  the  little  stream  which  ran  crimson 
with  his  blood.  But,  strange  to  tell,  when 
the  waters  of  the  little  creek,  after  all  these 
years,  had  changed  its  course  and  washed 
away  the  bank  that  hid  him,  the  picket  was 
not  off  duty,  but  there  he  stood,  upright,  on 
the  creek  bank,  wrapped  in  his  raincoat,  his 
cap,  with  the  visor  of  a  Wisconsin  regiment, 
309 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

on  his  head,  and  his  right  hand  raised  as  if 
giving  the  eternal  salute,  through  all  these 
years,  to  the  flag  of  his  country.  Tenderly 
was  he  relieved  from  his  duty  ;  and  the  hands 
that  once  tossed  him  into  a  sink-hole,  in  tears 
and  sorrow  laid  him  away,  there  in  that  quiet 
meadow,  his  sod  a  verdure  of  Southern  blue- 
grass,  his  decorations  the  daisies  which  South- 
ern children  planted  over  him,  and  the  land 
where  he  died  as  an  enemy  now  honoring  him 
as  a  friend. 

"  Hark  !  Marjorie,  does  not  that  tell  the 
whole  story  ?" 

I  strained  my  eyes  in  the  distance.  Near 
the  blue-grass  mound  I  beheld  a  homely-look- 
ing old  bay  mare,  cropping  the  grass  in  the 
starlight. 

"Old  Sweepstakes,  Marjorie,  the  dam  of 
world-beaters.  Does  not  the  blood  of  her  own 
matchless  son,  Star  Pointer,  flow  in  your 
veins  ?  Go  !  mare,  go  !" 

It  was  a  heart-killing  pace  to  Thompson's 

Station,  for  the  pike  was  level  and  good.     In 

a  little  branch  1  stopped  for  a  moment  and 

dipped  my  hat  into  the  water.     I  gave  her  six 

310 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

swallows,  dashed  the  rest  in  her  face  and  on 
her  flanks,  jumped  into  the  sulky  and  was 
off  again. 

It  was  now  quite  dark  as  we  flew  along. 
And  here  an  accident  happened  that  nearly 
cost  me  my  life.  The  mare  was  going  like  a 
whirlwind,  when  all  at  once  I  saw  her  spring 
into  the  air,  barely  in  time  to  save  herself.  The 
next  instant  the  sulky  shot  down  into  an  open 
culvert  and  I  went  over  the  wheel.  It  was  a 
second  before  I  came  to.  My  first  thought 
was  that  she  had  run  away  and  left  me,  and 
my  heart  sank  at  the  thought.  Instead,  she 
had  stopped,  turned  round,  and  stood  over 
me  as  I  lay  half  senseless  and  was  licking 
my  face.  I  could  not  help  it,  I  kissed  her 
soft  nozzle.  I  blessed  her  for  a  mare  that 
was  more  human  than  horse.  "God  bless 
you,  Marjorie,  there  was  never  one  like 
you  !" 

I  sprang  again  to  the  seat  and  we  were 
away. 

"Thompson  Station,  Marjorie,  battle  after 
battle  around  it,  and  one  that  was  particularly 
brilliant.  Here,  in  the  earliest  days  of  the 
3" 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

war,  the  intrepid  Forest,  with  eight  hundred 
men,  defeated  and  captured  General  Coburn 
and  his  brigade.  Here  the  gallant  Shatter, 
then  almost  a  boy,  gave  up  his  sword  fighting 
to  the  last ;  and  lived  to  lead  the  armies  of  our 
reunited  Country  against  Santiago  and  to  com- 
mand in  that  battle  an  old  Confederate  Major- 
General.  God  knows  best!" 

From  Thompson  Station  to  Franklin  is  nine 
miles,  the  pike  winding  in  and  out,  up  and 
down,  level  stretch  and  sloping  hill.  And  all 
along  I  talked  to  her,  this  filly  of  blood  and 
nerve,  racing  like  a  frictionless  engine,  the 
strokes  of  her  sweeping  limbs  like  those  of 
the  pistons  of  a  mighty  locomotive,  and  yet 
skimming  along  as  gracefully  as  a  swallow 
flies.  We  drove  from  the  Station  to  the  Atha 
Thomas  school-house,  three  miles,  in  ten  min- 
utes. 

Here  was  the  fearful  artillery  duel  on  Hood's 
famous  retreat,  when  from  hill  to  hill  the 
starved  and  disheartened  Confederates  stopped 
and  stood  like  a  wounded  bull  or  turned  and 
charged  their  maddening  pursuers.  Three 

miles  further  we  were  at  Winston  Hill,  and 
312 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

from  the  top,  away  in  the  distance,  I  saw  the 
lights  of  Franklin.  My  watch  showed  just 
eight  o'clock  !  My  heart  beat  wildly  now, 
and  hope  came,  swift  and  true.  I  reached  out 
and  felt  the  flanks  of  the  game  mare  that  had 
brought  me  twenty  miles  in  an  hour  on  the 
road,  a  record  I  knew  flesh  and  blood  would 
never  make  again.  She  was  as  wet  as  a 
blanket  dipped  in  a  spring,  but  no  foam  was  in 
her  flanks,  and  I  knew  her  muscles  were  soft 
and  pliant  and  her  skin  in  the  condition  of  race 
horses.  There  was  no  friction  there. 

The  little  town  of  Franklin  lies  in  a  bend  of 
the  Harpeth.  In  the  bend,  and  behind  the 
town,  are  the  bluffs  of  the  river.  At  the  high- 
est point  of  this  bluff,  on  Figuer's  Hill,  I  saw, 
still  standing,  the  grim  outline  of  the  Federal 
fort  that  poured  its  screaming  shot  and  shell 
into  Hood's  army  on  that  woful  last  day  of 
November,  1864,  when  they  formed  for  their 
charge  against  the  Federal  line  of  breastworks 
that  ran  in  front  of,  and  around  the  town, 
from  river  to  river  again. 

On  the  top  of  Winston's  Hill,  on  my  left, 
was  an  old  linden  tree — I  saw  it  standing  in 
3'3 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

the  starlight — where  General  Hood  sat  and 
gave  his  fateful  orders  for  the  brave  brigades 
to  go  down  to  their  death. 

"  It  is  hard, — hard,  Marjorie — but  this,  this 
is  truly  the  battlefield  of  death.  Here  around 
this  little  town  nine  battles  were  fought  in  that 
unholy  war.  Uncover,  mare,  uncover,  for  we 
tread  on  the  very  threshold  of  death. 

"  Here,  where  we  now  fly  along,  the  Con- 
federate army  formed.  Down  this  pike  and 
over  these  fields  they  charged  and  recharged, 
from  four  o'clock  until  midnight,  storming  these 
breastworks  of  death  thirteen  brutal  butcher- 
ing times.  Uncover,  mare,  uncover  ! 

"  Across  the  fields  they  swept,  nearly  half 
a  hundred  thousand  men,  in  battle  array,  with 
drums  beating,  and  flying,  flaunting  flags. 
Across,  from  the  fort,  thundered  and  screamed 
the  iron  shells,  and  in  front  lay  Schofield's 
army  behind  entrenchments  which  Baiaklava 
could  not  have  turned,  nor  Trafalgar  silenced. 
Uncover,  mare,  uncover ! 

"  Right  there  was  the  old  cotton-gin,  in  front 
of  which  lay  the  gallant  Cleburne.  This  is  the 
Carter  house,  riddled  with  bullet  and  shell. 
3H 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

Yonder  Adams  and  his  horse  lay,  half  over  the 
Union  breastwork.  Here  were  Gist  and  Strahl 
and  Granbury,  all  field  officers,  dead — while 
soldiers,  dead,  lay  for  half  a  mile  so  thick,  one 
could  walk  across  the  battlefield  with  the 
dead  as  stepping-stones.  Uncover,  mare,  un- 
cover ! 

"  They  wore  the  gray,  then,  Marjorie,  and 
perchance  their  sons  would  to-day  —  even 
under  the  old  flag, — but  now  that  it  is  all 
over,  the  sons  of  those  who  died  around  these 
breastworks  of  death  in  brave  and  honest  en- 
deavor to  tear  down  the  flag  of  their  country, 
these  would  die  to-night  to  place  it  there  again  ! 
Uncover,  mare,  uncover  !" 

We  rushed  through  the  town  of  Franklin, 
and  at  a  stable  door  I  stopped,  sprang  from  the 
sulky,  unchecked  and  called  for  a  bucket  of 
water.  She  begged  piteously  for  it  all,  but  I 
gave  her  but  three  swallows.  I  dashed  the 
rest  in  her  face,  then  put  my  ear  to  her  heav- 
ing flank.  It  rose  and  fell  like  the  waves  of 
the  sea  when  the  hurricane  drives  in  from  the 
deep.  It  beat  like  the  tramp  of  an  army  in  a 
death-run  for  victory.  It  scudded  and  swelled 
3'S 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

and  rolled  like  black  clouds  before  the  whirl- 
wind's breath — but  there  was  no  uncertain 
sound,  no  fluttering,  no  thumping.  Nature's 
machinery  was  working  like  clockwork. 

I  patted  her  cheek — she  whinnied  back  in 
my  face,  begging  for  water  I  dared  not  give. 
Instead,  I  took  quickly  from  my  pocket  a  flask 
and  poured  half  of  it  down  her  throat.  As  I 
sprang  into  the  sulky  a  man  rushed  out. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  "are  you  mad? 
Whereto?" 

"To  Nashville  in  an  hour,"  I  called  back. 

I  saw  him  throw  up  his  hands  and  shout, 
but  already  I  was  half-way  through  the  town. 

On — on — we  flew — the  mare  seemed  crazed 
and  ablaze  with  speed — her  brain  was  fire, 
her  limbs  the  flash  of  it — my  arms  seemed 
bands  of  stiff,  cold  iron — my  spine  ached,  my 
shoulders  were  adamant,  my  head — lead.  I 
felt  that  I  should  faint.  I  reeled  in  the  seat 
and  clutched  at  space.  In  a  sulky  there  is 
nothing  to  hold  to  but  the  lines. 

"  God  help  us,"  I  cried.  "  If  I  faint  we  are 
lost." 

A  moment  later,  when  I  regained  my  senses, 
316 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

I  was  still  in  the  sulky  seat — my  head  had 
fallen  on  her  croup.  She  had  stopped  until  I 
revived.  She  had  saved  me  again. 

"  Eighteen  more  miles  !  Oh,  if  we  can  only 
live  to  do  it,  Marjorie  !" 

Roper's  Knob  on  the  right,  grim  and  silent. 

The  Soule  place.  Something  thundered  be- 
neath me  like  the  rumbling  of  distant  cannon  ; 
we  had  run  over  the  little  bridge  at  Spencer's 
Creek.  On — on — I  let  her  go,  past  the  old 
Stanley  tavern,  the  McEwen  place — Cox  pike 
and  Mallory  Station.  I  tried  to  pull  her  up. 
We  seemed  to  be  boring  a  door  in  the  darkness 
— a  continual  door,  opening  to  our  rush,  clos- 
ing as  we  went  through.  1  could  not  stop  her. 
The  whiskey  had  gone  to  her  head,  and  she 
raced  like  a  maddened  thing.  The  fire  flew 
from  her  hoofs  on  the  flint  of  the  pike.  She 
had  broken  her  check  rein,  and  with  her  head 
down  she  was  running  away  at  a  pace. 

At  the  Holly  Spring  Gap  I  scarcely  saw  the 
log  house  where  the  bandit,  Murrill,  and  hfc 
gang  used  to  meet,  and  where  so  many  trav- 
elers had  given  up  their  lives  in  darkness  ano 
in  silence.  Then  we  plunged  into  the  dark 
317 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

ness  of  the  Gap,  into  the  midnight  gloom,  cold 
and  heavy,  and  holding  the  lines  as  I  was, 
seeing  nothing  before  me,  I  appeared  to  myself 
to  fly  from  midnight  into  the  mouth  of  dark- 
ness. The  next  instant  I  felt  a  shock,  and  shot 
like  a  bolt  from  my  seat.  1  clutched  the  air  as 
I  went,  and  came  down  in  a  dazed  heap,  my 
arm  around  the  filly's  neck,  and  she  stagger- 
ing wildly  for  her  feet.  She  had  gone  down 
and  I  had  been  thrown  from  my  seat,  but  had 
caught  her  neck  as  1  went  over  her  head. 

In  an  instant  I  had  struck  a  match,  and  there 
in  the  darkness  I  drank  of  the  gloom  of  it — 
never  had  such  despair  and  sorrow  overtaken 
me.  After  such  a  battle,  after  such  a  race, 
such  superhuman  strength  and  gameness — 
now  to  fail !  She  had  broken  both  knees, 
and  the  blood  flowed  in  streams  to  her  hoofs. 
But  she  did  not  wince.  Only  she  stood  look- 
ing at  me  in  baby-eyed,  wondering  astonish- 
ment— that  I  should  take  this  cruel  way  of  kill- 
ing her.  I  shall  never  forget  it,  for  as  I  tore 
my  handkerchief  in  twain  and  tied  the  strips 
around  her  knees  I  felt  her  soft,  pitying  nose 
laid  gently  on  my  cheek.  1  felt  her  impatient 
318 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

nibble  to  be  gone,  and  my  heart  revived  again 
with  hope.  I  could  not  help  it — when  I  sprang 
to  the  seat  again, — the  tears  were  streaming 
down  my  cheek. 

And  though  her  knees  were  broken,  she  did 
not  wince  when  she  felt  the  lines  again,  and 
only  in  the  darkness  could  I  see  that  she  had 
worn  off  one  of  her  steel  shoes — worn  it  to  a 
plate — a  thread — to  powder !  Then  I  knew 
what  a  terrible  drive  it  was  to  do  that.  I  knew 
the  shoe  was  gone,  because  the  sparks  would  fly 
in  the  darkness  from  all  the  other  feet  but  that, 
and  when  1  thought  of  the  agony  that  would 
soon  be  hers,  when  the  flint  and  gravel  had 
worn  it  to  the  quick,  I  almost  wished  she  had 
died  in  the  miles  behind  her.  Lame  in  front — 
quicked  behind — her  knees  broken  and  the 
blood  pouring  down,  and  yet  never  to  wince, 
never  to  whine,  never  to  quit — oh,  Marjorie 
— Marjorie — would,  would  that  mortal  man 
were  half  so  noble,  half  as  game  and  good  as 
you  ! 

For  five  miles  further,  her  feet  flew  with  the 
regularity  of  a  squadron  marching.  Past  the 
old  Tavern,  the  Zelner  place,  down  the  long 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

stretch  of  the  Little  Harpeth  Valley — on— on 
with  never  a  balk  or  break  !  I  heard  only  the 
stroke  of  her  sweeping  stride,  and  felt  the  fly- 
ing sulky  move  under  me  through  the  star- 
light ! 

"  God  help  us,  little  mare  !"  was  all  I  could 
say. 

On — on — we  flew — past  Oden's,  Moore's 
and  Brentwood — past  McNish's.  Then  two 
steel  rails  shot  under  me — I  had  crossed  the 
railroad  again.  It  was  Baxter's  crossing.  The 
iights  of  Nashville  were  nearly  in  sight. 

Oh,  Thesis  ! 

It  was  very  dark,  save  for  the  starlight.  1 
could  not  see  my  watch>  but  now  that  hope 
was  in  sight,  my  blood  ran  like  a  river  afire, 
and  my  spirits  came  back  like  the  ebb  of  a 
tide.  Then  I  talked  to  Marjorie  again : 

"  It  is  a  pike  of  death,  little  mare,  a  pike  of 
death,  and  once  again  we  have  plunged  into  a 
battlefield.  This  was  the  Confederate  line  in 
the  battle  around  Nashville.  This  was  the 
bleak  and  frozen  plain  and  hillside,  when, 
:rom  the  second  day  of  that  freezing  Decem- 
ber until  the  sixteenth,  Hood's  remnant  of  an 
320 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

army  stood  and  fired  and  froze  and  fell  before 
the  well-fed,  well-protected  veterans  of  the 
Rock  of  Chickamauga.  Here,  at  last  they 
gave  way,  and  then  began  that  stubborn, 
freezing,  dying  retreat  that  ended  the  war 
and  buried  the  flags  of  the  Lost  Cause  in 
the  soil  of  its  origin !  Uncover,  mare,  un- 
cover !" 

She  seemed  to  be  beside  herself  with  flight 
— never  had  I  known  such  speed.  The  sparks 
ceased  to  fly  from  her  near  forefoot — I  knew 
that  shoe  was  gone  too,  and  yet  she  did  not 
wince — she  did  not  flinch.  The  other  was 
worn  to  the  quick  and  left  blood  in  her  track, 
but,  game  creature  that  she  was,  I  knew  she 
would  pace  in,  if  but  a  bone  remained  for  her 
to  stand  upon. 

And  then  my  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  for  in 
the  night  of  stars  and  gloom  I  saw  the  great 
top  of  old  Fort  Negley  loom  up  !  I  remember 
but  confusedly  from  here  in — the  electric  lights 
of  the  city,  the  clock  in  the  Custom  House  tower 
— my  plunge  into  a  stable,  my  despair — my 
hope — my  sorrow — joy  !  Despair  and  sorrow 

when  1  saw  her  stagger  and  fall  at  last — joy — 
21  321 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

infinite  joy — when  I  felt  I  should  see  Thesis 
again  to  protect,  to  save  her ! 

And  then  I  remember  seeing  a  black  shadow 
spring  out  from  the  darkness  and  catch  the 
mare  as  she  fell.  I  saw  him  on  the  floor,  her 
head  in  his  lap,  and  the  blood-red  whiskey, 
gurgling  down  her  parched  throat,  while  a 
sponge  of  water,  ice-cold,  played  over  her  face 
and  head. 

"  My  God,  Wash  !     How " 

"  Drove  to  Spring  Hill  an'  caught  a  freight 
— me  and  Marse  Emerson.  He's  with  her. 
Go  quick  ! — quick  !  young  Marster,  ef  you'd 
be  of  help  !  I'll  save  de  filly — see  ef  I  don't ! 
This  kind  don't  die  fur  a  little  drive  lak  dat. 
But  fur  God's  sake,  go ! — they  need  you — 
quick  !" 

My  blood  seemed  afire,  and  yet  I  was  never 
cooler — never  was  I  more  resolved  or  deter- 
mined. I  seemed  to  stand  on  the  brink  of  a 
tragedy,  and  I  cared  not  whether  it  meant  life 
or  whether  it  meant  death. 

I  flew  up  the  steps  of  the  house,  where  I 
knew  she  was,  but  I  rang  no  bell,  for  it  was 

fully  lighted  up,  the  doors  open  as  if  company 

322 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

were  there.  At  the  inner  door  1  stopped,  and 
the  blood  flew  from  my  cheek  and  left  me,  for 
the  first  time,  trembling  and  almost  fainting. 

She  stood  by  the  Blind  Man,  as  sad  as  a 
Madonna  and  as  beautiful  as  an  angel  of  light, 
and  she  held  to  his  arm  for  protection.  Her 
eyes  seemed  wild  with  a  light  I  had  never  seen 
there  before.  Her  uncle  was  beseeching ; 
Joe  Forde  was  sullen  and  determined.  A 
man  in  a  clerical  coat  was  at  the  left. 

Only  the  Blind  Man  stood  like  a  lion  in  their 
path. 

"She  will  marry  me  or  that  man  wears 
stripes,"  Joe  Forde  was  saying  as  I  came  up. 

"It  is  to  save  me,  Thesis,"  mumbled  her 
uncle,  sillily. 

"  Never — oh,  uncle — never !"  she  pleaded. 
"  Let  him  send  me  to  prison " 

Then  the  Blind  Man  spoke,  and  never  had  I 
heard  such  a  voice.  He  was  not  excited,  not 
even  angry  ;  but  it  came  with  the  clear,  pene- 
trating voice  of  the  holy  fire  that  leaped  from 
heaven  at  Elijah's  call  from  Mount  Horeb,  and 
burned  the  offerings  and  the  altars  of  the 
priests  of  Baal. 

323 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

"  Joe  Forde,  you  have  played  a  false  game 
and  been  caught  in  your  own  toils.  You 
will  wear  the  stripes  yourself,  if  any  are 
worn." 

Forde  turned,  in  the  tantalizing,  quiet  way 
he  had,  and  with  a  cynical,  triumphant  look, 
said  simply,  "What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?" 

"  You  threw  your  bank-stock  on  the  market 
this  morning,  and  sold  it  for  a  song  before  you 
left,  did  you  not?" 

Forde  did  not  reply,  but  stood  looking  at 
him  over  his  eye-glasses  in  a  condescending, 
self-arrogant  way,  as  one  who  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  be  bored  for  a  few  minutes  by  a 
well-meaning  but  silly  antagonist,  before  car- 
rying his  own  point. 

"Yes,  you  did,"  went  on  the  Blind  Man, 
quietly.  "You  sold  it  for  ten  cents  on  the 
dollar,  and  then  you  sneaked  out  of  town  and 
left  your  assistant  cashier  to  open  up  a  broken 
bank  to-morrow,  and  a  weak  old  president, 
whom  you  have  robbed  and  beguiled,  to  bear 
the  infamy  of  your  own  robbery." 

Forde's  manner  instantly  changed.  I  saw 
him  flush  quickly  ;  then,  for  the  first  time  in 
324 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

my  life,  I  saw  him  turn  pale.  A  puzzled  look 
also  crept  into  his  face. 

"  Now,  it  was  my  money — in  fact,  it  was  I 
who  bought  that  stock  this  morning,"  coolly 
went  on  the  Blind  Man,  "  and  I  own  and  con- 
trol that  bank  to-night.  See  !"  he  said,  as  he 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  large  envelope  and 
handed  it  to  Thesis  :  "  It  is  yours,"  he  said  to 
her  simply  ;  "  yours  and  Ned's — wait !" 

Forde  laughed  ironically.  "  I  would  have 
warned  you  against  buying  worthless  stock 
myself,  if  you  had  advised  with  me,"  he  said. 
"There  is  no  money  in  the  vaults,  and  you 
know  why,"  he  said,  turning  to  Colonel 
Philips. 

The  latter  turned  impatiently  away. 

"And  there  is  where  you  are  mistaken," 
went  on  the  Blind  Man  quietly,  but  with  that 
same  penetrating  voice.  "  I  deposited  all  the 
money  in  the  vaults  at  just  ten  minutes  before 
six  o'clock  this  afternoon." 

"  Oh  !"  laughed   Forde,  forcedly  ;    "  then 

you  are  richer  than  I  suspected.     But  do  you 

know  that  it  will  take  two  hundred  thousand 

dollars  to  do  that  ?     And  I  don't  suppose  you 

325 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

will  find  that  sum  every  day  in  a  sheep's 
track,  eh  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  Blind  Man,  with  a  cruel, 
painful  emphasis,  and  a  voice  that  cut  like  a 
sword — "  No,  sir — not  in  a  sheep's  track  ;  but 
I  found  it  in  a  wolf's  track,  where  you  had  hid 
it,  sir, — robbed  the  bank  and  that  old  man  there 
and  hid  it.  And  I  only  put  it  back,  sir,  where 
it  belonged — took  it  from  the  vaults  of  a  tomb 
and  put  it  into  the  vaults  of  a  bank  where  you, 
thank  Heaven,  and  other  thieves,  will  have  no 
authority  to  go  in  and  steal." 

There  are  times  in  their  lives  when  men, 
even  with  the  cool  villainy  of  Joe  Forde,  when 
beaten,  turn  and  forget  all  things  else,  to  rend 
their  conquerors.  For  a  moment  he  was  a 
maniac,  and  sprang  at  the  Blind  Man's  throat 
with  clinched  teeth  and  uplifted  hand. 

But  he  never  struck  him.  As  far  back  as  I 
can  remember,  it  has  been  a  rule  of  the  Bal- 
lingtons  to  strike  first  and  to  strike  hard  ;  and 
1  put  all  my  strength  into  that  blow. 

I  was  still  looking  at  him,  stretched  sense- 
less on  the  floor,  when  I  heard  Thesis  scream, 

and  then  hold  out  both  her  hands  to  me.     I 
326 


A  Pike  of  Battles 

sprang  quickly  to  her  side.  She  was  standing 
by  a  chair  in  which  the  Blind  Man  sat.  His 
head  had  fallen  back,  and  a  smile  so  sweet 
and  natural  hung  round  his  lips  that  I  thought 
he  was  calling  to  me. 

Then  1  looked  into  his  eyes.  They  were  no 
longer  sightless,  but,  fixed  in  the  far  distance, 
I  saw  reflected  there  the  glory  and  sweetness 
of  another  world.  I  realized  it  all  only  when 
I  felt  Thesis  draw  my  hand  in  hers,  and 
instantly  we  both  knelt  down  beside  him, 
while  she  sobbed  in  my  arms  and  said : 

"  Oh,  Ned  !— Ned  !  He  sees  at  last.  It  is 
endless,  endless  day  with  him  now  I" 


3*7 


MY  LOVE  HAS  COME  AS  A  LILY. 

MY  Love  has  come  as  a  lily 
In  the  good  glad  Easter-tide, 
A  sweet  hope  born  with  the  risen  morn, 

Forever  at  my  side. 
And  her  eyes  are  the  stars  of  the  lily, 
And  her  face  is  a  snow-white  bloom, 
Lifting  up,  from  the  petal's  cup. 
The  soul  of  a  sweet  perfume. 

O  Love,  that  has  come  as  a  lily, 

O  heart  in  the  lily's  fold, 
You  are  mine  to-night  by  the  new-born  light, 

By  the  faith  and  the  story  of  old — 
You  are  mine  to-night,  O  Love,  by  the  right 

Of  the  love  my  heart  doth  hold. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

OHALL  I  ever  forget  it — the  sweet  Easter 
O  week  I  brought  her  to  the  old  place  ? 
We  had  had  our  first  tea  together,  and  now,  in 
the  twilight,  we  were  sitting  on  the  porch, 
where  already  the  white  rose-bush  had  begun 
to  throw  out  its  starry  blossoms. 

A  beautiful  chestnut  head  was  thrust  over 
the  balcony  from  the  lawn,  begging  for  a  lump 
of  sugar.  I  had  seen  Marjorie  limping  across, 
with  scarred  knees  and  drawn  tendons — blem- 
ishes that  made  her  sacred  to  me — but  in  the 
game  and  resolute,  tender  eye,  that  begged 
playfully  for  sugar,  there  slumbered  the  never- 
dying  light  of  a  great,  dumb  victory.  And 
she  got  her  sugar,  with  a  gentle  caress,  from 
hands  that  would,  God  willing,  in  the  years  to 
come,  give  her  many  more.  Then  two  white 
arms  stole  around  the  filly's  neck,  and  there 
was  the  natural  sealing  of  a  life's  friendship. 
331 


A  Summer  Hymnal 

And  now,  from  the  cherry  tree,  came  a 
burst  of  glorious  melody  that  made  my  heart 
melt.  When  it  ceased,  Thesis  had  laid  her 
head  on  my  shoulder,  and  was  weeping. 

"It  is  the  mocking-bird,  dear,"  she  said, 
"  and  he  is  adding  this  sweet  benediction  to 
our  wedded  love." 

But  I  had  seen  the  flash  of  a  slate-blue  form 
that  told  me  who  the  singer  was. 

"It's  the  cat-bird,  sweet,"  I  said;  "love  and 
a  home  have  made  him  a  great  singer." 


THE    END. 


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